


The Ruination of Miss Molly Hooper

by MizJoely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-24
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 13:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 30,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1057434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MizJoely/pseuds/MizJoely
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the Year of Our Lord 1804 and Sherlock Holmes is being forced into an arranged marriage...or so his parents think. The daughter of the family physician, Miss Molly Hooper, is much more to his tastes. John Watson has no objections to the match, only to the method by which his friends intends to make it happen! AU Historicalock Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Family Disharmony

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nocturnias](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnias/gifts).



> Thanks to Nocturnias for making me open my trunk full of unfinished Sherlolly stories and pouncing on this one as the one she most wanted me to write! Over the course of this weekend, it has gone from a page of notes to 22 pages of text and is nearly finished. Enjoy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story was in note form in my "Sherlolly ideas" file, but Nocturnias challenged me to write it and finish it in time for Christmas (missed that deadline, sadly). Actually, she pretty much triple-dog dared me, skipping right over the double-dog daring, and how could I resist? Enjoy!

“Sherlock, your mother and I have decided it is time for you to take a wife.”

The younger son of the fourth Earl of Ashatery opened his mouth to offer up a protest, but a quick look from his mother, Lady Iris Holmes, was sufficient to cause him to close it. He stood, hands behind his back, and waited for his father to finish. Mycroft smirked at him from his seat slightly behind both parents, but Sherlock ignored his infuriating elder sibling, electing to concentrate on the immediate threat to his personal well-being.

Tarquin Holmes was not a dangerous looking man, a fact which he had used to ruthless advantage over the years, both in the House of Lords and in his own household. How his wife had endured thirty years of marriage to the man, Sherlock had never been able to fathom. He was demanding, dictatorial, unyielding, bullheaded to a fault – all things, Sherlock was well aware, that both he and his brother had been accused of being as well – and worst of all, he treated his family more like possessions than living human beings with minds and wills of their own.

Therefore it came as no surprise to Sherlock when his father's next words were: “And we've selected Miss Janine Masterson as your bride. Negotiations are currently underway with her family regarding dowry.”

He knew it was useless to protest, but could not stop the words from pouring forth. “Father, I'm still at University; surely this can wait until I've completed my studies...”

“Completed your studies in what, exactly?” his father demanded, glaring at his youngest son while his wife laid a restraining hand on his arm, which he shook off irritably without even looking at her. “You've been sent down twice, Sherlock, and only your mother's influence has caused me to allow you to return! First you read law, then medicine, and now it's chemistry you've chosen to 'study'!” he sneered. “It's high time you settled down, and nothing settles a man down like a wife. Just look at your brother!”

Mycroft looked distinctly uncomfortable at suddenly being drawn into his father's rant, but schooled his expression into one of bland indifference as Sherlock shot him a venomous glance.

Their mother was whispering into her husband's ear, no doubt alarmed by the redness of his face as his voice raised itself into a shout – and all without Sherlock so much as making a single cutting remark in response. He was rather proud of his self-restraint, although it was certainly costing him; his stomach was churning and it was a battle not to fist his hands and hurl certain accusations about both Mycroft and their father right back at the family patriarch.

Instead, he chose to wait until the older man had finally wound down, then gave a stiff bow and asked to be excused, if that was all. Tarquin waved him away and demanded brandy, his wife hurrying to pour the required ablution for him even though it was barely noon.

It was no surprise to hear Mycroft's measured steps following him as he left the library and headed down the hall toward the main staircase. “If you've worried I'll fall back into drug use, Mycroft, don't,” he snarled without bothering to look around. “I've quite learned my lesson there, as you well know. Two errors in judgment on my part are the most I'll ever allow myself, no matter what the provocation.”

“I do not worry that you'll ever make such an error again, brother,” Mycroft replied, sounding somewhat out of breath as he hurried to match his brother's longer strides. Good, Sherlock found himself thinking viciously, perhaps it would help him to remember that cake was meant to be a treat and not a staple food.

“Then why, pray tell, are you following me?” Sherlock turned around to snap out, his irritation at their father spilling over onto his equally obnoxious sibling. “Do you think I'll run away to the sea as I threatened to do when we were children, find a pirate ship and vanish into the Spanish Main?” Even in the civilized Year of Our Lord 1804 there were still those whose practiced the ancient art of piracy, which had fascinated the younger Holmes brother while still in short pants.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft's quiet admonishment silenced his brother, who finally stopped moving and simply waited to hear what the older man had to say. “You knew this day was inevitable; what's more, you knew it was coming sooner rather than later. Why act so outraged?”

Sherlock's hands finally curled into the fists he'd been resisting for the past several minutes. “Because it's ridiculous and unnecessary,” he snapped. “You've already married and produced two sons to carry on the family name; you're the heir, you'll inherit the estate and titles and all the tedious responsibilities that go along with both. Why can't he simply continue to ignore me as he did when I was a child? I've already given my word that I'll not be sent down from Oxford a third time and that I'll never fall back into drug use! Why can't that be enough?”

Mycroft was good enough not to point out the fact that Sherlock had only been coerced into giving his word in order to avoid having his allowance cut off. It wasn't his only source of income, of course, but it was the only one he could be seen to have. His work with Inspector Lestrade of London's Bow Street Runners might pay only a pittance, but it was a pittance his father's shrewd eyes would surely note, no matter how well Sherlock attempted to hide it. At least with his annual allowance at his disposal it could be more easily concealed.

Until he'd established himself as the indispensable resource he knew himself more than capable of becoming, he wouldn't be able to branch out and begin taking private clients. He wouldn't have the independence he craved – and the path to that independence certainly did not include a wife. Especially not a spoiled society belle such as the Miss Janine Masterson, or 'Ginny' as she was known among her close cronies. Sherlock had never been part of the fashionable 'set' and had no desire to find himself trapped there, as he would be if this marriage was forced upon him.

Mycroft, who was as adept at reading people as his younger brother, deciphered most of this on his face, and finally came to the point, the reason he'd bothered to follow Sherlock in the first place. “Sherlock,” he said with a sigh, “do try to understand that our parents are actually looking out for you. Arranged marriages are not always the nightmares you seem to believe them to be.”

“Oh?” Sherlock shot a significant glance toward the door of the room the two brothers had just vacated. “And is your marriage so agreeable, your wife so amenable to your desires, that she wishes you to maintain a mistress in Town?”

Mycroft's lips tightened in annoyance. “The arrangement between myself and Lady Anthea is of no concern to you, Sherlock. And before you attempt to blackmail me with your knowledge, yes, my wife is aware of that arrangement. She encourages it, as a matter of fact, as she no longer wishes to share the marital bed since the birth of our last son. Produce at least one offspring with Miss Masterson and she'll no doubt encourage you to do much the same. As long as you don't flaunt your indiscretions, you'll find that a society wife will tolerate a great deal.”

With that 'brotherly' advice, Mycroft turned and lumbered back down the hall, no doubt to inform their father that he'd convinced Sherlock not to resist their matrimonial plans for him.

As Sherlock made his way up the stairs to his own suite of rooms, all he could think was that Mycroft had, indeed, convinced him of something – but it wasn't to marry the wife that had been selected for him.

He had quite a different candidate in mind.


	2. The Lady In Question

Molly Hooper was, as Sherlock Holmes had long been aware, an intelligent girl. She knew she was considered somewhat beyond marriageable age according to modern standards; she was eighteen, after all, practically on the shelf! But her father had required her assistance in so many ways after her mother had met her tragic end when Molly was thirteen – both in running their shared household and in medical matters – that she couldn't regret her current situation since it had lead to a closeness between father and daughter that might not have developed otherwise. 

It had also lead to her being allowed to actually indulge her intelligence far beyond what other girls of her station in life were allowed. Even when her mother had been alive, she'd reluctantly allowed Molly to learn to read and write and study mathematics beyond the education her peers were permitted, at her husband's behest. 

Best of all, she'd been allowed to assist Lord Holmes' younger son, Sherlock, who was only three years older than herself, with his many chemical experiments. She'd also assisted him in more clandestine researches into the inner workings of various creatures found on the vast grounds of the estate: together the two had investigated everything from insects to snakes to, most interesting of all, a dead deer they happened upon while seeking fungal samples from deep in the woods that made up a large part of the northern border of the Holmes lands. Sherlock was never without a collection of pocket knives that Molly secretly coveted, and their investigations had been so fascinating that she'd almost made the mistake of telling her father about it when he'd asked her what she'd done that day!

Unfortunately that had all changed when her body had changed, the day she first experienced what her mother called (in blushing whispers) 'the woman's curse' and her father's medical texts described (in more clinical terms) as 'menses'. The bleeding and cramps had frightened Molly until she understood (from the passage her father marked for her without her mother's knowledge) that it was simply the way a woman's body prepared for the presence of a child in the womb – and that each month the cycle was repeated until fertilization (another word her mother would be horrified to know that her daughter understood) occurred. 

She was no longer allowed to run about during the summer months, barefoot and wearing her oldest dress, no longer allowed to accompany Sherlock to the suite of rooms on the third floor of the manor house he used to conduct his many experiments. Instead she was forced to endure embroidery lessons (a disaster until her father showed her how a body could be stitched back together after surgery), pianaforte lessons (another disaster until her tutor made a passing comment about Sherlock being forced into violin lessons at the same time, and the two were allowed to practice together), and (worst disaster of all, no mitigating circumstances), singing lessons.

All these lessons weren't common for girls of her indeterminate class, she well knew. Just as she knew that it was her status as the family physician's daughter which had made her life somewhat lonely at times; she was considered 'above' the servants and villagers, but certainly not as high above them as the Earl and his family. She understood that, but she also understood that it was at Lady Holmes' behest that Molly be allowed access to the manor house in order to further her education in the niceties of being a 'lady' out of the goodness of her heart. What she didn't understand until much later was that Lady Holmes was aware of her mother's delicate condition, and had been prompted into performing the kindness out of affection for a woman she would declare a friend if the wide gap of class distinction did not yawn between them.

Lady Holmes had also been the one responsible for seeing that Molly's mother was laid to rest in the section of the Holmes family cemetery reserved for family friends and retainers rather than in the village graveyard, so that Molly and her father could visit her whenever they wished, rather than waiting for Sunday after Church services. She overheard her father and Lady Iris discussing the matter, and was made to understand from that discussion that Lord Holmes had not been in favor of the idea initially, but that his wife had used her gentle ways to persuade him it was the least they could do for Henry Hooper's years of dedicated service to their family.

It was at that moment that Molly realized that her father and Lady Iris Holmes were true friends, and that her mother and Lady Iris had been friends as well, a novel idea for a young lady who had been informed by her mother on countless occasions that she must never raise her expectations too highly! Her mother had been full of contradictions, but she had loved her husband and daughter, and Molly was wise enough to recognize that that was not always the case in families no matter how high or low born.

Lord Holmes was a completely different matter. The man terrified her even though their interactions had been but few in number over the course of her lifetime. She much preferred the company of Lady Holmes, a kindly woman who always made Molly feel like a welcome guest rather than an intrusion. She sometimes wondered if the older woman knew of Molly's affections toward her younger son, but if she did, she said nothing on the subject. Molly wasn't sure if that was a blessing or a curse; was she so adept at concealing her feelings that no one was aware of them but herself, or was Lady Holmes simply continuing to show kindness to the motherless girl she'd taken under her wing, by neither acknowleding nor dashing her forlorn hopes?

And if she did know, Molly found herself wondering off and on as the years passed and Sherlock went off to University (and returned home in disgrace twice, much to his father's obvious displeasure), how did she feel about it? She treated Molly with fondness, but was it simply out of sympathy to her friend’s daughter or was it because she had no daughters of her own on which to lavish her affection? 

Sometimes Molly even dared to imagine what it would be like to live in the manor house, to be wed to Sherlock and accepted by his mother as her daughter in law. Other times (most times), her practical side sneered at such romanticism; she was hardly well-bred or highly born enough to merit such a place – and Lord Holmes would never, ever welcome her as anything other than a status-seeking opportunist.

It was her lot in life, she supposed, to have fallen so desperately in love (yes, she told herself defiantly, she would use that word) with a man she could never have. And one who certainly had shown no signs of returning such affections in all the time she'd known him. Oh, he had been willing to allow her to follow him about when they were children, and had trusted her to care for him when his foolish experimentation with drug use had turned out so disastrous (oh, she could have predicted that, but he would never listen to anyone's advice), but had shown no signs of recognizing her as a desirable female, not even sneaking kisses when her body had begun to develop its womanly shape.

She knew she wasn't beautiful, certainly not by the standards of the ladies in his social class, with her brown eyes and slightly reddish brown hair (although her hair, at least, was something she could take some pride it, as it was thick and long and quite lush when she took it down from its habitual bun) and freckled skin. She wasn't pale and elegant; her nose was a snub that had no character to it, she'd been told by another girl once, and her interest in anatomy was entirely inappropriate, as was her inability to keep her intelligence modestly to herself.

She knew all that, the catalogue of her faults, and yet she still pined for the most perfect man she'd ever met.

Well, perfect in a physical sense. Although Sherlock had impeccable manners when necessary, she knew he was also impatient and rude and prone to explosions of temper followed by fits of languor that were a bit frightening to witness. Not only had he sampled drugs while at University but had indulged in other debaucheries no lady was supposed to know of let alone have described to her when the gentleman she fancied was deep in the throes of purging the self-inflicted poisons from his body.

She'd taken every curse and insult he'd hurled at her during that time and withstood them all, knowing he wasn't angry at her even as he spat out horrible things like _as you can clearly see, Miss Hooper, caring is not an advantage and stop mewling at me, you wretched cow, can't you see I just want to be alone?_ No, he was angry at himself for allowing himself to fall into such terrible habits, all because, as he'd explained to her after his body had stopped shaking and sweating and his mind had returned to its normal brilliance, it seemed the only way to slow his speeding thoughts, keeping them from cutting his mind into a thousand splintered pieces.

His studies at Oxford bored him, even when he switched to medicine. Then he was sent down again, but this time not for abusing himself, but for a series of what he termed 'harmless pranks' and his professors and the academics administering the university labeled 'dangerous actions' and which no one – including Sherlock himself – would explain to her.

He was currently home for the summer holidays and would be returning to Oxford in a few short weeks. During this visit she'd scarcely seen him, her time being mostly taken up with her father's ill health and sudden interest in obtaining a partner in his medical practice.

As stated before, Molly was an intelligent young woman; she'd known her mother was ill before the dread word 'consumption' was first whispered, supposedly above her head. She recognized that her father was not well, that he hadn't been well for several months, although, like her mother, he refused to acknowledge his illness to her. It was frustrating to be shut out after he'd spent her entire life ensuring that she lacked for nothing in the way of the knowledge she craved, but she understood.

Just as she understood that his sudden interest in acquiring a fellow practitioner had as much to do with her future as it did his.

Her father was intent on finding her a suitable husband before his illness (not consumption, the symptoms were similar but different enough that Molly had tentatively eliminated that possibility) worsened. 

Before he died. 

She shivered at the thought of losing her beloved father even as she fought down irritation at the idea that she would have to take on an unwanted life partner in order to secure her own future. If the world were only different, she privately lamented to herself as she continued to gather up the herbs on her resupply list, she would either be allowed to make her own way, or at least marry the only man she'd ever wished to wed, the only one who seemed to find intelligence in a woman not a lamentable defect but somewhat of an attractive quality...

“Good day, Miss Hooper. I trust your travels have been fruitful this morning?”

Molly jumped a bit at the sound of Sherlock's – Mr. Holmes's, she mentally corrected herself – voice from behind her. Very close behind her, as it happened; when she turned he was right there, barely two steps separating them, hands clasped behind his back and impeccably clad as always. “G-good day, Mr. Holmes,” she stammered out in response, cursing the blood rushing to her cheeks as she stared at the man about whom she'd just been thinking such inappropriate thoughts. “Um, what travels would those be?” she added, somewhat confused by his choice of words – not to mention flustered at the sight of him so close to her body. She edged back a bit and offered a bright smile to cover her sudden discomfort.

He nodded toward the edges of her skirts. “You've been to the forest, no doubt in search of mushrooms and other herbage that can't be tidily restrained in an herb garden; there is a piece of bracken caught in the hem of your gown and your shoes are slightly damp in spite of it being late morning and no sign of rain for the past several days. And,” he added, reaching out and plucking something from the portion of her hair showing beneath her bonnet, “there is this.” He showed it to her – a fragment of an oak leaf, the stem of which must have entangled itself in her hair without her notice.

She laughed again, a bit self-consciously, as she automatically pushed her hair back beneath her bonnet, trying not to savor the feel of his fingers where they'd brushed against her forehead. “Yes, Mr. Holmes, that's exactly where I've been today. Oh, and welcome home,” she added, belatedly remembering her manners – and wondering if she dared ask how his studies were going.

“My studies are going quite well, thank you,” he responded – not to her words but to her very thoughts. Molly's mouth dropped open in a most unladylike expression, and his easy smile turned into a definite smirk. “It was the obvious question, Miss Hooper, the one most on everyone's mind...and the one least expressed to me since my return. I believe I have finally settled on an area of study that suits me, and,” he added, his expression suddenly serious, “one that I promise will not lead to any deliberate...misbehaviour...on my part. You have my word on that.”

“Oh,” was all she managed in response. Then: “That's...good. That's...very, very good to hear, Mr. Holmes.”

He huffed impatiently and even rolled his eyes. “I do wish we could dispense with such useless formalities, Miss Hooper,” he said. “Do you think that you could bring yourself to call me 'Sherlock' when we are alone, as you did when we were children? And I,” he added, lowering his voice and leaning forward slightly, giving their conversation a level of intimacy it hadn't held only moments earlier, “would much rather call you 'Molly', if I may.”

She stared at him, mouth slightly parted in surprise, eyes wide, gazing into his blue-green orbs as if mesmerized. Their heads were still bent close together, and it occurred to Molly that all she would have do would be to lean forward and raise herself to the tips of her toes in order to close that distance and....

“Oh!” she exclaimed as the basket she'd been holding tipped, spilling her morning's gleanings between them. She looked down, cheeks flushed, heart pounding in her chest, then knelt down to pick up the plants and fungi that she'd dropped. _Silly girl_ , she counseled herself as she carefully plucked the delicate leaves up from the ground, _you very nearly made a complete fool of yourself._ “Please forgive me, Mr. Holmes,” she said primly, keeping her eyes firmly on the ground. “I do need to finish my chores and return to my father's practice to assist him.”

There was a moment's silence, during which Molly found herself holding her breath, then: “Very well, Miss Hooper. Please give your father my best wishes.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw his legs and feet turn as if to leave her, but he paused after taking only a single step, suddenly turning back and kneeling so that she was forced to meet his gaze. “Would you be so kind as to pass a message along to Dr. Hooper for me? I'm afraid I'm late for an engagement else I'd do it myself.”

He smiled, the charming smile that always weakened her knees when he turned it on her, and she found herself nodding. “Please give him this card,” Sherlock said, removing a small pasteboard rectangle from his waistcoat pocket and pressing it into Molly's hands. Her fingers curled around it automatically, even as her breath caught at the way Sherlock's gloved hand seemed to linger on her bare skin a bit longer than was necessary – or seemly. “A close friend of mine finds himself in need of a position, and I am given to understand that your father is seeking a partner to bring into his practice. I believe they would be a good match.”

Then his hand was gone and seconds later, so was he, although the scent of his cologne lingered in the air.

It took Molly almost a full minute to collect her gathered wits well enough to read the card, which held an address and the name in plain black letters: “Dr. John Watson,” she read aloud, then looked up at Sherlock's retreating form, wondering how he'd found out about her father's decision when he'd only come to it last night – and had thus far only shared it with Molly.


	3. Dr. Watson Protests

**One Week Later**

“Sherlock! Dammit, man, where are you?”

With a sigh, Sherlock returned to his feet and readied himself to face his friend's ire. Obviously John had finally been approached by Dr. Hooper regarding his intentions for his daughter's future.

Sure enough, the next words out of the older man's mouth were: “Why didn't you tell me Dr. Hooper wanted to take on a partner in order to procure a husband for his daughter as well as someone to take on his practice due to his ill health?”

Sherlock gave him an irritated glance as he rearranged several of the disassembled pieces of apparatus and glassware on the table. “I did tell you to conceal your marital status, John,” he pointed out. “Surely you understood I had reason to do so?”

John had reached the table and batted Sherlock's hands away from the pieces of copper tubing with with they'd been fiddling, waiting until his friend met his angry glare before speaking again. “You implied it was simply a condition of the 'temporary' post which I was to take on, that Dr. Hooper preferred someone without ties to inherit his practice!” he snarled, moustache bristling with the force of his ire.

“Which it was,” Sherlock agreed, folding his arms across his chest and rolling his eyes. “Surely once you realized he had an unattached daughter of marriageable age the reasoning was obvious!”

“No, Sherlock, it wasn't bloody _obvious_!” John growled, his face reddening as his anger only increased. “Nothing about this so-called 'case' is bloody obvious! You'd better tell me what the hell is going on, or so help me God, I will march out of this room, replace my wedding band on my finger and inform Dr. Hooper that I am going into Town to spend the rest of the week with _my wife_!”

The last words were practically shouted, and Sherlock felt his unease growing. “John, I implore you, try to restrain your temper,” he said, lowering his voice and darting his eyes toward the still-open door to his private laboratory. “The servants scuttle about like beetles day and night, and they gossip worse than the ladies in my mother's circle!”

John snapped his mouth shut, his glare firmly in place, and crossed his arms to mimic Sherlock's previous stance as his friend crossed the room, glanced down the hall – empty, thank God – and carefully shut the door. “Fine,” he growled once Sherlock had returned to his former position behind the table. “I will attempt to calm myself. But I do vow, Sherlock, that if this is some misguided attempt to separate me from Mary, I will not hesitate to beat you to a bloody pulp. Are we clear?”

Sherlock was a bit taken aback at this accusation, not to mention stung by the fact that his friend thought so poorly of him. “No, John, this has nothing to do with your relationship with Mrs. Watson,” he snapped, the words coming out a bit harsher than he'd meant them to. “You have made it quite clear that any misgivings I might have are entirely my own and not to be shared with you or anyone else, especially not your wife.” Said misgivings were purely selfish, anyway; he missed having John available at the drop of the proverbial hat whenever Inspector Lestrade had a case that left him baffled and in need of Sherlock's assistance.

He and John had first met, in fact, on such a case, when the murder suspect had had the unfortunate idea of taking a hostage and holding a blade to his throat – the hostage in question being a recently invalided former army doctor who had no intention of being so used. In spite of his still-painful shoulder injury, John had made short work of the desperate man, separating him from his knife with a cool proficiency that Sherlock could not help but admire.

That chance – and chancy – meeting had led to a friendship that Sherlock valued above all others he had developed. He only hoped that his current path would not damage the relationship, although having survived his drug use and John’s marriage to the former Miss Mary Morstan, he suspected it would take more than his arguably honorable intentions (even with dishonorable results) to cause irreparable damage.

“Then why have you set me up in so untenable a position?” John demanded, not one whit placated by Sherlock's attempt at reassurance. “Tell me why I'm here, Sherlock. Now.”

His friend sighed, ran a rueful hand through his hair, and leaned back against the sideboard-turned-storage cupboard for failed experiments. “It's not _your_ marital status that needs adjusting, John, but mine. My parents have arranged a marriage for me to a woman with whom I have no interest in being tied to.”

“And how do I fit into...oh. No,” John said, as the light appeared to dawn. Sherlock waited with interest and not a little trepidation to see if the doctor had actually stumbled upon his friend's true intentions. “You had me come out here to prevent Dr. Hooper from finding a suitable husband for his daughter...because you wish to marry her yourself?”

Sherlock's brow lowered, and he couldn't help a flash of annoyance at being so accurately deduced, coupled with pride that John's deductive abilities had come so far since the beginning of their acquaintance. “Very good, John,” he said with grudging approval. “You've driven right to the heart of the matter on your first try.”

“Don't try any false flattery with me,” John muttered, but Sherlock could tell he was pleased, both by his correct deduction and by Sherlock's sincere praise. However, he immediately returned to his previous annoyance with his next words. “If you want to marry the girl, then why not approach her father yourself? Dr. Hooper seems a reasonable man who would not deny your suit if you presented yourself properly. Why all the subterfuge?”

Before Sherlock could answer, John seemed to realize the problem. “Of course; it isn’t her father you’re worried about it’s _your_ parents. They would never approve of you marrying beneath your station,” he murmured, brow knitting in a frown as he considered his friend's quandary. “Which is why they've arranged a marriage with...whom, exactly?”

“Miss Janine Masterson.” Sherlock spat out the name in distaste. “Not my first choice had I been given one. Nor my second, nor my twenty-third, nor my last, come to that. My parents – my father, really – seek only to add to the family coffers. There is no consideration for what I might seek in a wife; had I been aware that Father was unwilling to wait until I'd completed my studies at Oxford before foisting a bride on me, I would have found a different way to approach the matter. Now I've been put on the spot, as it were, which is why I called you away from your wife and practice in London.”

John's ire appeared to have completely dissolved at the raw honesty in his friend's voice, and he waved away the inconvenience as if it were nothing. “Henderson has agreed to take on my practice and Mary is very tolerant of my frequent absences to assist you,” he reassured Sherlock, who found himself somewhat at a loss for words at that unexpected admission; he'd been led to believe that the former Miss Morstan preferred to keep John on a short leash. Perhaps he'd been a bit hasty in his rush to judgment of the woman.... “So you wish to marry Miss Hooper,” John mused, a smile growing on his lips as he interrupted Sherlock's thoughts. “That's...unexpectedly romantic of you, falling in love with the girl next door.”

Sherlock, who had leaned down a bit to examine the contents of a beaker that had caught his attention – the liquid inside should be violet, not green, hmmm – snapped his head up so quickly his neck cracked. He settled a glare on the still-smiling John and said: “I haven't fallen in love, don't be an idiot. Molly is simply the best option available to me at this time.”

When John simply continued to smirk and raised a skeptical eyebrow, Sherlock felt compelled to continue: “She is a known quantity, having lived on the estate since early childhood, when her father inherited his uncle's practice upon his unexpected death.” The man had been a drunken idiot who had fallen from a horse he should never have been riding in the first place; fortunately his nephew had proven to be disinclined to fall to the evils of drink as well as a better physician than his predecessor. “She is intelligent enough for a woman of her class, not to mention far more intelligent than most of the simpering idiots of the ton. She has always been willing to assist me with my experiments – at least when we were younger, before such interactions were deemed _inappropriate_ by our parents,” he added with a sneer.

Molly's mother, in fact, had been very adamant that her impressionable young daughter no longer keep company with the Earl's son as soon as her anatomy began to develop some rather intriguing – at the time, to Sherlock's fifteen-year-old-self's mind – changes. Then the woman had fallen ill with consumption and died two years later, leaving Dr. Henry Hooper alone to raise his daughter as best he could. Molly had been allowed to study subjects considered even more inappropriate than the chemistry Sherlock had been instructing her in, which, although he would never admit it, was one of the reasons he had chosen to study medicine after his first expulsion from Oxford (which was entirely his father's fault for insisting he read Law in the first place).

He didn't bother explaining any of this to John, who would no doubt regard the information as further 'proof' that Sherlock's 'feelings' for Molly were of a romantic rather than a practical nature. It was also why he refrained from confessing that their shared music lessons had been…not unpleasant. That belief was proven when the next words out of John's mouth were: “And she's very pretty, in her own way.”

Sherlock scowled at his friend's obstinate insistence on casting this as a romance rather than the cold-blooded business transaction it actually was. “Her mouth is too small and so are her breasts,” he said, attempting cruelty and knowing it for a mistake as soon as the words left his mouth.

John's eyes lit up and his grin broadened into a smirk. “Ah, so you've noticed her mouth and her breasts! It must be love!”

“It isn't love!” Sherlock snarled in response, raking his fingers through his disordered curls so that they stood even more wildly on end than usual. “It is the most sensible response to an outrageous situation! I only wish to marry Molly Hooper because it will satisfy my father's ridiculous need to control every aspect of my life, while at the same time keeping me from being saddled with an imbecile for the rest of my life!”

John's expression remained skeptical. “Right. Whatever you say, Sherlock. You still haven't explained to me how you intend to bring this situation about. What with having an inconvenient fiancée already waiting your formal proposal and all,” he added, clearly needling his friend.

Sherlock felt his face settle into another scowl, and smoothed his expression with effort. Normally he was the one who set John's teeth on edge; how had he allowed this situation to descend to the point where he felt he was on the defensive? Time to return matters to their normal orientation. He stretched his lips in a wolfish grin as he said: “Quite simply, actually. I'm going to bring Molly into Town with me and ruin her.”


	4. Mr. Holmes Reveals His Intentions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who fear for Molly's reputation, please rest assured that both Mr. Holmes and the author have things covered, promise!

John attempted to dissuade him, naturally enough. Sherlock could not fault him for that, although he did find the man's exaggerated indignation a bit annoying; hadn't he been the one to brag about his experiences with 'the fairer sex' when they first met one another three years prior? In fact, hadn't he been the one to persuade Sherlock to experience the joys of being in a woman's arms at least once while he was still young and unattached? It had astounded him, from his lofty perch of two-and-thirty years, that a man of Sherlock's age and station had never taken advantage of all the hedonistic pleasures that life had to offer. He'd practically had to drag Sherlock to his favorite bordello, only to watch with amusement as his friend became a frequent visitor for a period of several months before his first time being sent down from Oxford.

John had certainly not approved when Sherlock's interest in expanding his horizons began to include the drugs that were the cause of that disgrace. It turned out his friend was quite prudish when it came to the matter of narcotics, and Sherlock's drug use had nearly destroyed their nascent friendship before the younger man had come to his senses – in no small part due to the intervention of Molly Hooper when she'd discovered his hidden vice during a visit home for the Christmas holidays. He'd been terrible to her, he recalled with a flush of shame, calling her names, taunting her with his sexual escapades as he raved in his withdrawal fever while hiding in her father's clinic building. Even though she’d accepted his apologies for the cruelty he’d displayed during his feverish rantings, the nagging sense of guilt his actions had raised had never entirely disappeared.

This, of course, was a vastly different situation, he reassured himself as he brushed aside John's strident protests. He was in his right mind and he was certain that Molly would agree to his plan. It made it easier to ignore John, just as he'd ignored his brother Mycroft's threats to thrash him within an inch of his life if he ever so much as glanced at morphine again (after snarkily reminding his brother that such a thrashing would undoubtedly result in the doctor attending to him to prescribe that very drug to reduce Sherlock's pain). “Molly will agree,” he said confidently as he bounded around the room, peering into various beakers and tubes to check on the status of his ongoing experiments, feeling and looking very pleased with himself. “She'll see that it's the only option available to us,” he concluded, coming to a stop directly in front of his friend.

“It certainly is not the 'only option', Sherlock,” John snapped. “You propose to ruin a young lady's reputation, to impugn her honor for your own selfish needs...”

“And for her needs as well, John,” Sherlock reminded him, settling himself on one of the high-backed armchairs scattered about the room in between the many overladen tables. “I can assure you, Molly has no desire to be married off to the first overeager young idiot to attach himself to her father's practice.”

“Of course, you've already circumvented her father's wishes by talking me into taking that position under false pretenses,” John grumbled, taking the chair next to Sherlock's and fixing his glare on his oblivious friend's face. “How long do you intend to allow this farce to continue, Sherlock? I do have my own practice to return to...and my own wife,” he added pointedly, the true nature of his discontent allowing itself to be seen. “Honestly, Sherlock, if you want to marry the girl in spite of your father's likely unwillingness to accept such a match, why don't you simply propose and run off with her to Gretna Green like every other young pair of lovestruck idiots in this country?”

Sherlock gave him an aggrieved look, one John knew well and did his best to ignore whenever it was bestowed upon him. “Because we are not some 'young pair of lovestruck idiots',” he snapped. “Although I suppose if we took your advice and did so, we would certainly qualify as the latter,” he added snippily. “Think, John. The purpose of my marrying at all is to prevent my father from cutting off my allowance. Sadly, until I reach the age of twenty-five I depend on that income. The pittance I earn from assisting Lestrade and the imbeciles he commands is hardly enough for me to live on, let alone manage a wife and household! And if I wed under such circumstances – by simply running off with the first convenient woman to come along – I can assure you, my father would not hesitate to not only remove that source of income, but to deny me and my bride welcome in any of my family's various places of residence. No, simply running off will not solve anything.”

“And deliberately taking an innocent young girl's virtue will?” John demanded, exasperated at the circles in which their argument seemed to be taking them.

Sherlock turned his head and gave him a cold stare. “Of course I shall inform Molly of my intentions when the time comes, John. I am neither a complete idiot nor some rakehell who brags of his conquests and counts his 'successes' in the number of bloodied sheets he collects. No, once Molly is pregnant – ”

John practically exploded from his seat at that word. “Pregnant?!?” he repeated incredulously. “What do you...you mean you intend to not only take Miss Hooper's virtue but get her with child as well?!? Sherlock, this plan of yours is...”

“The only one that meets all my requirements,” Sherlock barked out, remaining in his seat although the tension in his posture betrayed the effect John's disapproving words had on him. “And 'Miss Hooper's' as well,” he added, a bite of mockery in his tones as he used her title and surname rather than calling her Molly as he preferred. 

“In what way?” John demanded, sounding not one whit convinced, the scowl on his face only growing in intensity as he waited for Sherlock to explain.

“My father has a horror of any Holmes being born on the wrong side of the blanket, John,” Sherlock replied. “The mere thought of a child with his blood running through its veins being labeled a bastard will be enough to cause him to not only permit the marriage, but encourage it as well – without withdrawing his financial support the way he would if I were to take your advice and simply enter into an unsanctioned marriage before ensuring such an outcome,” he added, deliberately settling back in his chair. 

“And what of the young lady's reputation?” John demanded, not appeased by his friend's assessment of the situation – nor his assertion of the lady in question's willingness to allow herself to be drawn into so troublesome an arrangement. “I daresay you'll find she's not so willing to trade her virtue simply to avoid the complications of an arranged marriage, no matter what her feelings for you might be,” he added disapprovingly, before pointing out: “Which, I might add, you have yet to take into consideration in this mad venture your propose.”

“Her father did not take her feelings into consideration when he elected to bring a partner into his practice with the secondary intention of offering his own daughter to take to wife,” Sherlock shot back with a scowl. “Besides,” he added smugly, “Molly is in love with me.”

John raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you are so certain of that, are you?”

Sherlock nodded. “I've known her my entire life, John. And although I may often seem insensible to the interests of women in myself, I can assure you, I have become adept at reading the signs. A lesson you helped me to learn,” he added with another smug grin before continuing: “Aside from yourself, the only persons who will know that Molly and I had unsanctioned relations will be her father and my parents...and believe me, none of us will wish to advertise the circumstances under which Molly becomes my wife.”

“People can still count, Sherlock,” John muttered, but his friend could tell he was weakening and simply waved off that objection.

“Yes, and yet there are still many, many 'premature' births at all walks of life, are there not? How many healthy, good-sized infants have you delivered in your practice that supposedly arrived a month early or even longer, hmm?”

John had no argument to offer to refute those questions, since he knew very well that his friend was correct. The situation still did not sit comfortably on his shoulders, but he had never been able to out-argue Sherlock Holmes under any circumstances except one – and having been the one to convince the younger man to sample to pleasures of the female flesh, he could hardly fault him for his willingness to continued to do so. 

While he dithered, Sherlock was speaking. “Now. Can I depend upon your continued assistance in this matter, or have you decided to denounce me as a cad and force me to find some even less savory method of ensuring my future does not include an unwanted marriage to a woman I will detest for as long as I am tied to her? My brother recommended producing an heir as quickly as possible and then taking on a mistress, a lovely way to live one's life, don't you think?”

John, who had married for love, would surely accept that argument, which wasn't wholly calculated to play on the other man's personal weakness for sentiment – although such calculation did, indeed, play a part. Sherlock believed that his scheme would work, that Molly would cooperate in its execution, and that they would both be in receipt of what they most wanted: the freedom to live their lives without unwanted spouses being forced upon them.

“Are you so certain that Miss Hooper will embrace this scheme, Sherlock?” John's words were quietly spoken, as if he sensed his friend's incipient melancholy. Because if things did not go as he wished them to, then the life he'd outlined – a life forced upon him by his father – would, indeed come to pass, and the barrenness of a life without even the semblance of love in it was not one John would wish on anyone, even a man who decried sentiment at every turn as his friend did. But if Sherlock was in any way engaging in some sort of wishful thinking where Miss Hooper's feelings were concerned, then that needed to be addressed, and right now, before she was brought into this insanity.

“Molly, as I have already pointed out and as you have no doubt observed for yourself during your time here, is an intelligent young woman,” Sherlock replied, fingers steepled beneath his chin and eyes fixed on some unseen point in the middle distance. “Imagine her chained for the remainder of her days to a man who forbids her to use that intelligence, who refuses to recognize that her true worth lies not in how many sons she can give him or how smoothly she runs his household, but in how her keen mind can assist him to reach conclusions he might otherwise have overlooked.”

Suddenly Sherlock was no longer speaking in the abstract, but revealing truths about his relationship with Molly he had never actively considered before. John remained silent as Sherlock continued: “When we were children, Molly never derided me for my intelligence, John, the way so many of my so-called peers have,” he said, his voice gone soft, meditative. “She never shrank from me, never declared my interests in chemistry or biology as 'unnatural'. In truth, she assisted me, displaying an interest that very nearly matched my own. I encouraged her, and would have continued to encourage her, had her mother not stepped in and insisted that our association was inappropriate once Molly began displaying the first signs of womanhood.”

He fell silent, and it was a long moment before John spoke. “Sherlock,” he said softly, “if I didn't know you so well, I would say you are giving a remarkable imitation of a man in love.”

He rose to his feet before Sherlock could respond to so outlandish a statement, clearly heading out of the room. However, he paused on the threshold with his hand on the door knob to say: “I will continue the charade until you are prepared to put this mad scheme of yours into action. But I want your word that you will do nothing to force Miss Hooper into acceding to your wishes; if she does not agree, then you are not to try and coerce or bully her into doing this for your own selfish purposes. If she refuses, then you will drop the matter. Agreed?”

He waited until he heard his friend reply, “Agreed,” before leaving the room, closing the door softly behind him.

Then he shook his head and wondered if he'd just committed the gravest error in judgment of his life.


	5. False Pretences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets Molly to Town...what happens next is entirely up to Miss Hooper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What? Two chapters in one day? Outlandish!

**One Week Later**

“Miss Hooper?” 

Molly turned to see Dr. Watson standing, somewhat awkwardly, in the kitchen doorway. “Yes, Doctor? Can I help you with something?” she asked, already laying down her paring knife and the potato she'd been holding. Their housemaid was ill, and Molly had volunteered to assist with her normal duties until she was well enough to return to work. Their housekeeper, Mrs. Haversham, had gratefully accepted and put Molly to work in the kitchen while the cook was at the market making the day's purchases.

In spite of this being her least favorite chore, Molly managed a cheerful smile for her father's new partner as she waited for his response.

“Actually, yes, you can,” he replied, still looking somewhat uncomfortable. She wondered what was wrong, if he and Sherlock had had a falling out of some kind and Dr. Watson was seeking her advice on the matter. “I need to return to London; I've received word that my...sister is ill. Sher – that is, Mr. Holmes suggested that you might accompany us in order to assist me if necessary, as your nursing skills are quite superior. As I've already observed for myself,” he hastened to add, his face flushing as if embarrassed by approaching her in this manner.

And well he might be, Molly found herself thinking with some exasperation; Sherlock didn't always think things through before he spoke. “Although I appreciate your kind words regarding my modest skills, you know I have responsibilities here...”

“Of course,” Dr. Watson replied, nodding his head rapidly, as if he not only understood what she was trying to say but agreed with her. “However, Sher – Mr. Holmes asked me to assure you that the visit will only be for the day. He will be accompanying us into Town as he has business there, and will ensure that the carriage is available for your use when you are ready to return.” He gave an apologetic smile before adding: “You know how insistent Mr. Holmes can be, Miss Hooper. And he feels very strongly that you are the best person to help my Mary – that is, my sister. Mary. Mary Watson.”

Molly felt an itch of suspicion between her shoulderblades; first Dr. Watson had hesitated before using the word 'sister' for the first time, and now he seemed to have equal difficulty in referring to this 'Mary' person in such a manner. It was obvious that Sherlock had put his friend up to this odd request, but to what purpose? A frisson of excitement made its way up her spine; was this Sherlock's way of attempting to gain her clandestine assistance in one of his experiments, to bring her to work by his side as they had when they were younger?

Either way – whether Dr. Watson's sister was actually ill or whether there was some hidden motive behind the request – she felt a thrill at this sudden alteration to the normal routine of her daily life. “Let me speak to Papa,” she found herself saying, even as she began untying her apron and preparing to fold it neatly away. “Our housemaid is ill, it's possible he might not be able to spare me...”

“Oh, Sherlock mentioned that,” Dr. Watson replied, his tense pose relaxing a bit as she made herself more agreeable to his request. “He said if you were able to come away for the day that his mother would send someone to assist your father in your absence. And a chaperone has been arranged for as well,” he added, although there was a trace of discomfort in his tone as he gave her that information, which Molly made no mention of even as she noted it as a peculiarity to be taken out and examined later when she had the time.

All she did for now was murmur her excuses and return to her small bedroom in order to change into clothing more appropriate for her first visit to London, even under such peculiar circumstances. It would certainly not do for her to arrive wearing the well-worn gown she’d donned for a day spent in working in the kitchens and tending to her father’s patients!

As she hurriedly rearranged her clothing, she found herself fighting down a growing sense of excitement. London was only an hour’s carriage ride away, and yet this would be her first visit to the busy city of which she’d heard so much. However, her excitement was tempered by the circumstances of the visit – and not solely because of Dr. Watson’s supposedly ill sister. No, something more was happening here, she felt it in her bones. 

The timing alone would be enough to alert her that there was something unspoken occurring, let alone Dr. Watson’s unusually nervous demeanor. Mr. Mycroft Holmes and his family had returned to their own summer residence after their fortnight’s visit ended yesterday morning, the two boys noisy and boisterous, Mrs. Holmes silent and reserved as always, as was her husband. The elder Mr. Holmes had vacated the premises a day earlier, on his way to tour several of the family’s other estates for an extended period of time as he always did after his grandchildren had returned home, Lady Iris had been quite busy with social engagements in the absence of her husband and their eldest son and his family.

During the week leading up to his family’s dispersal, Sherlock – Mr. Holmes, Molly reminded herself crossly, although she still felt a faint thrill at how he’d asked her to call him by his first name during their private conversations – had been very attentive to her, seeking her company out whenever he left the confines of the manor house. More attentive than Dr. Watson, whom her father must have spoken to regarding Molly’s future by now, which had not gone unnoticed by her, although she kept her suspicions in that regard strictly to herself.

She’d attributed the youngest Mr. Holmes’ attentions to her to boredom and perhaps a simple desire for companionship while his friend was busy settling into the new life upon which he'd embarked. However, now she believed he’d had some other motive – what, she had yet to ferret out, but perhaps this trip to London would provide her the answers she’d been seeking.

She paused in the midst of rewinding her hair into a tidy bun on the back of her head to wonder if it was in some manner related to Dr. Watson’s future relationship to her, and she to he; Sherlock had asked, rather diffidently, what she thought of his friend during one or two of their informal chats when Molly worked in the herb garden or was cleaning up her father’s offices at the end of the day. The girlish part of her had thrilled to the questions, hoping they indicated his own interest in her, only to be thoroughly quashed by her more practical self’s assertion that he was asking on behalf of the potential suitor rather than for himself.

Although Sherlock was certainly capable of initiating an elaborate ruse to bring her to London for some other purpose than the one stated, however, she refused to believe Dr. Watson capable of such subterfuge. No, she'd never met a more open, honest, guileless man as John Watson; if he wished to properly woo her, he would never begin in so devious a manner. So if there was, in fact, no ill sister for her and Dr. Watson to tend to, that girlish part of her whispered, then perhaps it was Sherlock who wished to bring her away for some nefarious purpose…

“Oh, stop it, Molly Hooper,” she scolded herself with a shake of her head. “You're letting your imagination run away with you again. You're building up a romance out of a few simple courtesies. Besides,” she mumbled as she finished fastening her gown, “Sherlock is too far above you for you to even pretend that such a union could be anything more than temporary.”

With a sudden rush of excitement, she wondered if she could ever dare to allow herself a temporary dalliance with a man. To be so wanton as to take a lover – yes, women did it all the time, no matter how the matter was hushed up by their scandalized families, but could she be such a bold spirit?

The question lingered in her mind, unanswered and very possibly unanswerable, as she concluded her preparations. Papa's permission for the journey had been sought and received, the chaperone – whoever she was, a servant from London, was all she’d been told – was waiting, and Molly was finally ready to join Dr. Watson and Sherlock (she’d thoroughly given up on thinking of him any other way by now, although she was firm in her insistence on referring to him properly when speaking to him).

Whatever the day brought, Molly was determined to take what pleasure from it she could, to mark the occasion of her first visit to London in the company of the man who would undoubtedly one day be her husband.

oOo

“John, you must give me your solemn vow that you won't speak a word of my intentions to Molly, but leave it to me to do so,” Sherlock said, making his words and expression as serious as he could manage.

The two men awaited the arrival of Molly on the front steps of the manor house, while Sherlock’s hand-picked driver and ‘chaperone’ loitered near the carriage, both shooting him disgruntled looks whenever they thought he wouldn’t see them.

See them, however, he did, and allowed them their petty annoyance, as it would be all the satisfaction they would gain from their temporary sojourn into his employment. After this Miss Sally Donovan, only daughter of a well-to-do American family recently moved to London, and Mr. Anderson (he’d purposely avoided remembering the man’s Christian name, he despised him that much), her married neighbor and lover, would part ways with him, their debt to him for his discretion in the matter of a blackmailing servant satisfied.

He spoke of none of this to John; the less his friend knew of his arrangement with Miss Donovan and Mr. Anderson, the better. Instead, he continued to press his restated request for John’s continued discretion in this matter. “As I promised, I will do nothing to her against Miss Hooper’s will; I only wish to ascertain her willingness to...that is to say, her interest...”

“You wish to know if she is still as infatuated with you as you believe her to be,” John interrupted him with a smug grin. 

Sherlock gritted his teeth, held back on the insult that came so readily to mind, and simply nodded. “If you must put it that way, then yes. I do.”

What he didn't say was that he knew very well how Molly Hooper felt about him – and that her so-called 'infatuation' was, in fact, something she would no doubt characterize as a deep and abiding love. He'd tried to tell John that in their earlier discussion, but apparently the other man either doubted Sherlock's assessment of her feelings, or believed his friend was exaggerating them for his own purposes.

No, he knew exactly how Molly felt for him; she'd demonstrated it in a thousand ways over the past several years, and he marveled that it had taken him this long to understand the depths of her feelings. She'd not flinched when he was sent down from Oxford for drug use and general unruliness, only offered her quiet support and the gentle regard which he'd become used to receiving from her during his turbulent adolescence. Although their meetings after her twelfth birthday had been erratic and clandestine (outside of their music lessons, which had become entirely bearable once they were permitted to practice together), nothing untoward had happened between them in spite of her mother's fears.

The irony of the fact that he was now contemplating doing to Molly exactly what her mother had fretted over when he was still a youth was not lost on him. However, he trusted that that good woman would approve the overall goal for her daughter; what mother, he reasoned, wouldn't want to see her only child not only settled – wed and with child – but to someone she felt a deep and abiding affection for? And that by doing so, improve her social standing as well?

It was simply common sense, he had insisted to himself as he arranged for a driver and chaperone – a pair of blasted nuisances since he could drive the carriage himself and neither he nor John would be so foolish as to commit any improprieties on the journey itself, even if they were so minded! His own intentions after their arrival were hardly improper, he reasoned, since the actions he contemplated were fully meant to resolve themselves in matrimony, with the full consent of both parties involved. In spite of John's stated reservations, Sherlock was completely confident of Molly's cooperation in his plans.

The slight flutter of anticipation in his stomach at the sight of Molly Hooper coming towards them had nothing to do with her, he told himself, and everything to do with the culmination of those plans.

“Promise, John!” he hissed to his friend, barely moving his lips as he continued to watch Molly picking her careful way along the graveled path that lead to the pair awaiting her in front of the manor house.

He heard John sigh. Heavily. “Very well, Sherlock, I give my word not to speak of your intentions toward Miss Hooper to her or to anyone else – other than my wife,” he added, standing firm when Sherlock turned to glower at him. “I keep no secrets from Mary, Sherlock, a fact which you should take to heart if you actually achieve what you desire from all this dissembling and subterfuge.”

Sherlock started to shake his head, paused to gauge John's determination, then nodded. “Very well,” he agreed curtly. “Tell your wife anything you choose, as long as she, too, agrees not to speak of this to anyone other than yourself. Ah, Molly!” he added, dipping his head courteously and plastering a welcoming smile on his face. “How good of you to join us! Your first trip to London, is it not?”

She gave a shy smile and a nod, the movement exaggerated by her oversized bonnet. She wore a warm shawl over her shoulders and her best frock, the pink one she only took out for Sunday services or other such important occasions. “I look forward to it a great deal, Mr. Holmes, in spite of the sad circumstances that lead us here.”

She tilted her head toward John, who belatedly recalled his supposedly ill sister and stammered out something about appreciating Molly’s willingness to assist him. Sherlock restrained himself from rolling his eyes, but only just; honestly, John had been forced to dissemble in a good cause on more than one occasion in the past, why was it so difficult for him to do so now? Ridiculous, the value society placed on the proprieties it sought to uphold, especially considering the sheer number of those who discreetly – or not so discreetly – went about undermining the very values they espoused to admire!

He dismissed such trivia as he focused on the woman standing in front of him. If he were inclined toward uttering such obvious banalities, he would admit that she looked quite pleasing in her soft pink gown and matching bonnet. Her cheeks were pink as well, although whether from the effort of walking from the cottage she shared with her father or from the excitement that clearly put a sparkle in her brown eyes, he was uncertain. Perhaps it was a combination of both, he decided, then put forth his arm for her to take.

John, however, was there before him, tipping his hat to Molly, murmuring a compliment that brought a definite blush to her cheek and caused her to lower her eyes modestly as she accepted his arm, leaving Sherlock to trail behind the two as they made their way to the waiting carriage. He schooled his expression to one of pleasant neutrality even as he wished he could vent his feelings at being supplanted by his supposed best friend in a glare at said friend's back. However, it wouldn't do for Molly to turn and possibly catch him demonstrating his discontent – especially since he could fathom no good reason to feel so annoyed with John. After all, the man was supposedly here not only to join Dr. Hooper in his medical practice, but also to woo Molly.

The fact that John was happily, nay, blissfully, married did little to calm the sudden churning in Sherlock's stomach at the thought of Molly engaged in such a state with another man. Any other man; surely no one would be able to ensure her future happiness as well as he could.

Such unhappy thoughts carried him the short distance to the carriage. Molly seemed a bit taken aback at the sight of the two strangers, although Sherlock found it commendable that she only stared for a moment at Miss Donovan’s dark skin. John was making the introductions, thankfully not stumbling over the story that had been agreed upon. “Miss Donovan is my sister’s maid, and Anderson kindly drove her here so you would have a suitable escort on your first visit to Town.”

“That was very kind of you both, to go out of your way for us,” Molly replied with a warm smile for both newcomers. Sherlock watched critically but was pleasantly surprised when his coerced assistants seemed genuinely friendly toward Molly.

“I do wonder that Smith didn’t insist on driving us,” was her only comment as Sherlock handed her up to John, who had already entered the carriage. “He is very fond of Town, as I recall.”

Then she gave Sherlock a sidelong glance that another man might have found difficult to read, but plainly told him she knew he was up to something. However, he thought smugly as he seated himself across from her and Donovan with his back to Anderson, he very much doubted that she would be able to ascertain what, exactly, that might be! “Smith injured his ankle,” he explained blandly. “And several of mother’s housemaids are nursing colds, leaving her rather short-handed and unable to offer a chaperone of local origin, as it were. I do hope this doesn’t inconvenience you.”

Molly gave him a polite smile. “Not at all, Mr. Holmes, although I wonder that Papa could spare me with so many ailments afflicting the estate!” Then she turned deliberately to face Miss Donovan with a much more genuine smile. “However, I must admit that I am quite excited to be able to hear Miss Donovan’s perspective on living in London; it must be quite different than out here in the country!”

After that, Sherlock was hard-pressed to enter so much as a single word into the conversation that began between the two women. However, when it became apparent that they were not deliberately attempting to prevent him or John from joining in the conversation, but had instead found several points of commonality between them despite their disparate origins, he elected to remain silent. He had nothing against Miss Donovan in general, simply in her choice of romantic partner, and was not displeased that she and Molly had immediately struck up a rapport, if only because it might make the tedious journey to London pass more quickly. He much preferred to ride on his own to taking a carriage, especially when the intent was not to stay longer than a single night.

It wasn’t until they were a good half-mile past the nearest village that Molly turned to him during a lull in the conversation to ask: “Mr. Holmes, I nearly forgot; will Mr. Anderson and Miss Donovan be returning with me this evening? If so, I do hope that you informed your mother so that appropriate accommodations could be arranged!”

He nodded, having expected such a question. “Of course, pray don’t worry yourself about it.” He smiled, restraining himself so that it would not turn into a self-satisfied smirk as he added: “All necessary arrangements for the evening have been made.”

Donovan gave him a sharp look, which he returned with a bland smile. She gave a slight huff that Molly seemed oblivious to, then returned her attention to her seat-mate as the two women resumed their interrupted conversation. They chatted about a variety of subjects, most of which Sherlock quickly found boring, and he soon settled into a light doze for the remainder of the hour-long journey.

As soon as they entered the outskirts of London, however, he instantly returned to his habitual alert demeanor, as did John, although the good doctor’s was tinged with a trace of unease. That was no doubt due to the fact that his duplicity was about to be revealed to Molly, but Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to be concerned about John at the moment. As soon as they reached the agreed-upon location on the outskirts of a small park located within walking distance of Donovan and Anderson’s respective homes, the carriage was brought to a halt and Anderson jumped down from his seat.

Molly watched with an expression of bemusement as her seat-mate made as if to join the driver, and Sherlock felt himself tensing in anticipation of her reaction to the revelation that she’d been deceived as to their identities. She said nothing, however, as the two made their farewells, merely remaining in the carriage with John while Sherlock mumbled a vague excuse and joined the other two a short distance away.

“Right, that does it, we’ve discharged out debt to you, Mr. Holmes,” Anderson growled while Sally moved to join her sister, her alibi for the day. She’d been the one to aid Sally and Anderson when they’d first become enamored of one another, and had well proven her ability to keep her sister’s activities a secret from their parents and any other prying souls. Sherlock could admire her loyalty even as he disapproved of her willingness to look the other way on her sister’s behalf in so distasteful an affair with a married man. “I trust this means you will keep your word and allow Miss Donovan and I to continue to live our lives as we see fit.

Sherlock barely acknowledged Anderson's irritating whine, too busy with his own thoughts to do more than wave his agreement before turning away from the other man. He was well aware of what others might term the hypocrisy of his thoughts, since he aspired to an illicit affair of his own. His actions with Molly, however, would not harm anyone, not even the lady herself if she agreed to them, whereas Anderson and Donovan knew full well that the man's wife would be inconsolable if she were to learn that her beloved husband was carrying on in such a manner with a woman she considered something of a social peer if not exactly a friend.

Still, that was their mess to sort out, not his, and as they vanished in opposite directions, having received Sherlock’s reassurances that they had, indeed, paid their debt and need never see nor speak to him ever again, he removed them completely from his mind.

He returned to the carriage, where Molly and John were waiting. Clearly John had attempted to engage her in conversation during Sherlock’s brief time away, but equally clearly she’d refused to respond. Judging by the rising color in her cheeks, she was well aware that something was amiss and none too pleased at the discovery.

“Mr. Holmes,” she said, as soon as he was in earshot, rising to her feet and glaring down at him from (for the first time in their acquaintance) her superior height. “I would very much appreciate an explanation as to what exactly is going on! And pray, sir, do not,” she added, shooting John a severe glance before returning her gaze to meet Sherlock’s, “attempt to deceive me further regarding Dr. Watson’s ‘ill sister’! I’ve already determined for myself that no such person exists, and I demand to know why you’ve brought me here under false pretences!”


	6. Misbehaving

Sherlock couldn't help but stare admiringly up at Molly as she continued to frown down at him, the flush on her cheek entirely due to her distemper with him, the sparkle in her brown eyes more of an angry glitter...she'd never looked lovelier, was his somewhat startled conclusion. Suddenly his declarations of common sense as a motivator for his plans seemed utter rubbish.

“If you will permit me to take the reins, Miss Hooper, so that we can return Dr. Watson to his residence,” he said after he'd shaken himself from his temporary spell of admiration, “I will explain everything, leaving nothing out. And if you're worried about being seen with me without a chaperone, I can assure you that Mrs. Watson will gladly act in that capacity if necessary.”

Ah, so she hadn't come to the correct conclusions after all, at least, not entirely, he thought with a hint of smugness as she stared, wide-eyed, at John. Who of course had flushed with embarrassment as soon as Sherlock had mentioned the existence of his wife. “Mrs. Watson...would not be your sister or your mother, would she, Doctor?” Molly asked as she slowly retook her seat, hands folded primly on her lap...at least, so it might appear to the untrained eye. Sherlock, however, could see how tightly she clasped them together – but not in fear; oh, no, his Molly was quite fearless and always had been no matter how docile an exterior she donned to present herself as society expected a young lady of her class to do.

He felt a twinge of conscience assail him at the thought; perhaps this entire risky plan of his was too much of a risk for Molly, no matter how fearless she was? No; he'd come too far to alter his course. And although he could certainly dissemble further, he owed her nothing less than the entire truth.

John was babbling out an apology, attempting to explain his part in the charade without actually giving any of Sherlock's actual intentions away; good man, even if he was clearly making matters worse rather than helping. “Yes, John, I'm sure Molly understands that you entered into this agreement without being fully aware of the situation involved, just as I'm sure she understands that it was entirely at my behest. You forgive him, Molly, yes?”

He'd taken the reins in hand but had yet to start the horses moving, glancing over his shoulder to gauge Molly's expression.

She still gave the appearance of anger, but he recognized that her curiosity was overcoming her anger, no matter how stiffly she held herself. Her disapproving her expression melted into something approaching tolerance if not outright forgiveness as she addressed John: “I accept your apologies, Dr. Watson, conditionally, of course. And I appreciate your and Mr. Holmes's offers of your wife – whom I presume to be entirely unaware of the true reasons behind your temporary absence? – as chaperone, but Mr. Holmes and I have spent many hours together without what would be considered proper supervision, and I see no reason to alter our past habits at this point in time. Unless,” she added, suddenly raising her eyes and pinning Sherlock with the sharpness of her gaze, “I am mistaken? Have I need to worry about you...misbehaving...Mr. Holmes?”

Oh, well done, Molly, he thought, but did not say. Instead he kept his gaze neutral and offered her a stiff nod in response to the challenge in her voice. Then he turned back and concentrated as best he could on controlling the horses and maneuvering the carriage back into the light stream of traffic.

It would be much simpler, he grumbled to himself, if his trousers hadn't suddenly become so damnably tight around his groin.

oOo

They soon reached their destination, a street lined with well-kept and modestly sized townhouses. Sherlock pulled up in front of one near the center of row, waiting impatiently as John once again made his apologies to Molly before finally descending from the carriage.

As he shut the door behind him, Molly leaned forward and said, in her sweetest voice: “Dr. Watson? Shall I have Mr. Holmes send your belongings on to you? Or do you prefer to tender your notice to my father in person?”

John squared his shoulders and faced her straight on. “Of course I shall return myself to gather my belonging and apologize to your father for my part in this deception,” he replied. “However, I shall wait until you and Sherlock have had time to speak before I do so, as I am certain much will hinge on the outcome of your conversation.” Then he bestowed a particularly enigmatic look upon his friend before turning and heading up the brick path to his home.

Molly took note of the details as she and Sherlock waited for John to enter before he put the carriage into motion once again. There was a brass plaque by the door, with Dr. Watson's name and hours of availability engraved on it. The woman who met him at the door was an attractive blonde with eyes so blue Molly could easily discern their color even from the kerb. She seemed pleased and surprised to see Dr. Watson, and greeted him with a kiss that instantly proclaimed their relationship as husband and wife. Either that, Molly found herself thinking with a kind of wry cynicism she rarely allowed herself to feel, or he was engaged in an open affair with the housekeeper.

As Sherlock started the carriage moving again, she voiced her questions in a tone of utter exasperation: “Why did you advise Papa to take on Dr. Watson as his partner when the man is not only already married, but already has a practice of his own here in Town?”

“Miss Hooper, I beg of you to retain your questions for our arrival at our destination, as it will tax even my skills to attempt such a conversation whilst maneuvering the carriage through London traffic. I promise, your patience will be well rewarded.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at his back as he returned his attention to the horses, skillfully moving the carriage away from the kerb and onto the street, showing no signs of any difficulty in doing so. Was there some second meaning to his words? He'd spoken them with the little smirk he wore only when he felt he was being clever, the one she'd seen many times since childhood, although he'd learned to use it with far more subtlety since reaching adulthood.

However, if Sherlock Holmes said he would answer her questions, then he would answer her questions. And if he declared that she must wait for those answers, then even the devil himself would be unable to drag another word from the man's lips.

And they were, she mused as she watched the traffic passing by on the busy road they next turned onto, some very attractive lips. Perfect Cupid's bows, she'd heard a giggling housemaid describe then once to the cook when they didn't realize Molly had come into the manor's kitchen in search of something her father needed. She understood the classical allusion, although it had surprised her that the maid recognized the term well enough to use it properly!

She forced her mind away from such improper thoughts and lost herself in the sights and sounds and (unfortunately) smells of London. Fifteen minutes later found them at the front entrance to another townhouse, this one much grander than Dr. Watson's modest home. A man Sherlock greeted as 'Wiggins' accepted the reins when Sherlock stepped down to the pavement, opening Molly's door and assisting her to step down. He offered her his arm, which she politely declined, choosing to simply follow him as he lead up to the front door. He opened it with a key he took from his waistcoat pocket, and silently nodded for her to precede him inside.

She was slightly apprehensive; why had no servant answered the door? The man who had taken the carriage, Wiggins, must be the groom, but if they were expected then why had Sherlock opened the door himself?

“The rest of the servants have been given leave to visit their families for the week,” he said, correctly deducing her concerns as she finally moved to enter and allow him to close the door behind her. “I wished us to have complete privacy for our...conversation.”

There was no mistaking the deliberate hesitation before that last word. Molly would never presume to compare her own intellectual abilities to Sherlock's, but she was certainly no lackwit; he not only had another word in mind, but he'd wanted her to see that hesitation! “Mr. Holmes, you promised me an explanation. I would very much like to hear that explanation. Right now, if you don't mind.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock moved away from Molly and began removing his gloves, working them off one finger at a time while she remained where he'd left her, a simmering anger growing in her breast. It was far past time for her to grasp the bull by the horns. “Sherlock, why have you brought me here?” she demanded. “I understand this to be one of your family's properties...”

He paused in the act of removing his coat – why was he removing his coat? – and glanced over at her without pausing in his movements. “We are in my family's Baker Street townhouse. It's not the most fashionable part of Town, which is why I prefer to stay here whenever I find myself in London and not at University. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, is away for the week visiting her sister in Leeds, and the rest of the servants have been given the week off as well, as none of the family were expected to visit. And when I say none of the family,” he added with a flash of his rare smile, “of course I mean myself, as none of the others would be caught dead here during the Season. Or any other time, for that matter, as this place is, essentially, my place of exile when I have misbehaved.”

“And are you...misbehaving...now?” was her next, cautious question, spoken in a breathy manner directly caused by how closely he was standing in front of her.

He'd removed his coat entirely and draped it over one arm, and was now reaching up to loosen his cravat. Molly swallowed. Hard. Considered bolting back out the door, but stood her ground. “What do you think, Miss Hooper?” he asked, his voice lowered to a deep, purring thrum as his fingers continued to unwind the fabric from around his neck, baring his long, pale neck to her scandalized view.

“I, I think...I think you might be attempting to seduce me,” Molly said in a near whisper. “Am I, am I incorrect in my assumption?”

He paused in the act of removing the cravat from his collar and flashed her a very dangerous grin before lowering his head and breathing into her ear: “No, Miss Hooper, you are not.”

Molly lowered her eyes and gazed blankly at her tightly-clasped hands for a moment as she considered his words, trying desperately not to focus on the shiver that had coursed down her spine when he said her name. When she finally found the courage to speak again, it was a single word, breathed out as she once again met his gaze. “Why?”

“Because I do not wish to marry Miss Janine Masterson, and I know you do not wish to be married off to whatever idiotic young apprentice your father decides to take under his wing to replace John,” came Sherlock's blunt response. He quickly explained his less than honorable plan to her, while she gaped and stared, completely stunned by his words.

He wished to dishonor her, to ruin her...to get her with child, if possible. That part she understood; he was a man, after all, and had already made clear to her that he was not unwilling to indulge his appetites, although he appeared to have put such indulgences aside after his last return to Oxford. No, the part she found most difficult to grasp what that he wished to do all this in order to force his father, the notoriously intractable Lord Holmes, to allow them to wed.

And all of this...scheming...was offered to her as if he were delivering a lecture on the internal arrangements of an earthworm, as he'd once done when they were ten and thirteen. Dryly, factually, without any show of emotion.

Well. At least he was not attempting any form of deception on her. As she remained silent, a slight “V” appeared between his eyebrows, which lowered as if he were discommoded by her lack of response. “Miss Hooper? Molly? Have you any response to my proposal?”

The words that exited her lips were not anything she'd intended to speak aloud. “Then it is not because you...care for me at all?” Molly asked, wishing her tone was not quite so plaintive. 

The look Sherlock flashed her was pure irritation. “Of course I care for you, Molly,” he said, all pretense at formality vanished as he dropped both coat and cravat to the floor. “Else I wouldn't bother with any of this foolishness.” He reached out and removed her shawl from around her shoulders, dropping it on top of his coat, and began undoing the ties to her bonnet. “It confounds me, why women feel the need to cover themselves in so many unnecessary layers,” he mumbled as he started to give her bonnet the same treatment as her shawl – until she snatched it out of his hands and held it protectively to her chest.

He raised one eyebrow in that irritating manner he had – irritating only because it was a movement she had never been able to duplicate. “Is there a problem, Molly?”

“I haven't agreed to allow you to s-seduce me, Sherlock,” she found herself replying, once again not the words she'd intended to speak at all. To cover her flustered reaction, her reddened cheeks and trembling limbs, she turned and carefully hung her bonnet on the peg by the door, reaching down and picking up both her shawl and Sherlock's frock coat and hanging them just as carefully on two other pegs.

When she turned around, he was right there, crowding against her closely enough that it would take very little for their bodies to touch. She sucked in a startled breath, her eyes flying up to meet his. His pupils had expanded, darkening his blue-green eyes into deep pools of black in which her own startled face was reflected back at her. Although she had done nothing to encourage him, he nevertheless seemed to read encouragement in her eyes as he reached out with one hand, grazing her cheek with the tips of his fingers before speaking.

“Molly, as I already told you, I intend to ruin you,” he announced, his voice once again an octave lower, husky and thrumming along her nerves in a most agreeable manner. “I intend to ruin you so thoroughly that your father will be outraged enough to demand that I marry you in order to protect your good name and, if things work out as I hope they will, to keep our child from being labeled a bastard. And my father will be forced to agree lest your father broadcast my infamy and do even more damage to the Holmes name than I have already managed. And unless I am very much mistaken,” he added, his voice still low and intense, still setting her nerves on fire and her heart to pounding in her chest, “you are not averse to this plan.”

Before she could respond, his hands were on her arms, pulling her against his lean form, and his mouth descended to cover hers, and she had her first proper kiss from a man who clearly knew exactly what he was doing.

When he released her, gasping and trembling, her own pupils no doubt as fully expanded as his own, all she could say was: “Very well. I consent.”

That brought an unexpected laugh from between the lips that had just been ravishing her own, and Molly felt herself flushing in sudden embarrassment; what had she said that merited such a show of humor? Had she made a mistake in accompanying him here after all?

“Forgive me, Molly. I am given to understand that most maids who are about to be ravished usually protest such treatment, at least at first.”

“And I am given to understand that most rakehells do not warn their prey in advance of their intentions,” Molly riposted, wondering from what previously unknown source her sudden courage had arisen. “Nor do they promise marriage as the outcome – and mean it.” A rush of uncertainty overcame her, and she found herself blurting out her fears: “You do mean it, don't you? You intend to marry me, not simply use and discard me?”

He took her arm and threaded it through his as he lead her toward the stairs leading to the main floor of the townhouse. “Use you, yes,” he replied with another wicked grin. “Discard you, no. You have been a constant in my life, Molly Hooper, and proven yourself an able and intelligent companion with an interest in the experiments I conduct, no matter what they entail. You have never reacted with disgust or fear when I expound on theories that my own family regard as ridiculous or at least socially unacceptable, and you have defended me – quite vigorously, I might add – when you had no idea I could hear you, on more than one occasion. For that reason alone I would choose to wed you above any other woman offered to me.”

Molly felt a bit overwhelmed at this recitation of her supposed virtues – virtues, she noted, that had nothing to do with her appearance. He said nothing of her lips or her cheeks or hair, and she found, somewhat to her chagrin, that she was vain enough to wish to hear him sing her body's praises as well as those of her mind. However, when she opened her mouth to inquire as to his thoughts in that area, he interrupted her with another kiss, stopping on the bottom step of the staircase, pressing her against the wall with one hand by her head and the other grasping her waist.

“Yes, Molly, you're pretty,” he muttered as his lips slid down to what little of her throat he could reach above her clothing. “You have given over the wearing of your bonnet frequently enough that there are freckles on your face and neck, which are quite attractive in their own quiet way – much like you,” he added, bringing another blush to her cheeks. He smiled. “And when you do that, your features are even more agreeable. As for your figure,” he pulled away from her, flicking his eyes up and down her form in a manner no young lady of breeding would ever tolerate, “...your figure is petite and slender even without the corsets you women insist on torturing yourselves with, and your hair...” He paused in his assessment, moving his head back in order to study her chestnut locks. “Your hair is a very attractive color. As soon as we have reached my bedroom and I can remove these blasted – pardon my language – pins, then I will be able to give you a better – mmph!”

She knew it was terribly forward of her, but she couldn't help it; she found her hands suddenly clutching his head and pulling him down to meet her as she raised herself on her toes and kissed him.

His hair was soft and the curls seemed absolutely made for running one's fingers through and his mouth tasted of peppermint and faintly of pipe tobacco and she could feel every inch of his body against hers – including a rather intriguing warm bulge pressing into her hip.

Although her father had indulged her interest in medicine her entire life, even he had limits – and the books detailing the workings of the human reproductive system were among those, with the single exception of the pages explaining the workings of the female menstrual cycle on that long-ago day when she was thirteen and terrified that she'd injured herself badly enough to bleed to death. However, Molly had never allowed anything to stand in the way when it came to obtaining knowledge of human physiology, and her father's refusal to permit her to read certain texts hadn't stopped her from sneaking looks when he was busy with members of the Holmes family or the tenants who made up the bulk of his practice on that family's extensive estates and in the nearby village. Therefore, even as an unwed maid, she knew of the differences between males and females, although her actual experience was limited to the sight of naked babies and the antics of the farm animals. She knew what that bulge meant, and blushed to think that she'd been the cause of Sherlock's arousal.

“Miss Hooper,” he said as the kiss ended (and she was pleased to note he was breathing just as heavily as she was, and that his eyes seemed fixed on her bosom), “I find that you are a very forward young woman.” His eyes crinkled in a smile as he added: “And I find that fact quite, quite agreeable.” Then he tucked her arm beneath his once again and fairly pulled her up the stairs.

The bedroom they entered was of an adequate size to house an enormous mahogany sleigh bed as well as a matching clothes-press and a small writing desk with a cane-bottomed chair in front of it. There was a fire laid on in the small fireplace opposite the two windows, both of which allowed enough sunlight to penetrate that Molly could see every detail, from the neatly-swept floor to the antique lace coverlet laid over the foot of the bed, which contrasted nicely with the dark green of the bedding itself. There was a veritable mountain of pillows at the headboard, most of which Sherlock proceeded to toss carelessly to the floor while Molly remained timidly by the doorway, watching his movements with wide eyes and a fluttery feeling in her stomach that had very little to do with nerves – and a great deal to do with the flood of anticipation that had come over her from his first heated kiss.

She laid a trembling hand on her bosom; was she actually going to allow this to happen? Was she truly going to give herself to Sherlock Holmes, the Earl's youngest son, without the sanction of the Church? He'd mentioned the possibility – no, the hope – that their union would result in a child as well; was she truly willing to risk her reputation being ruined in such a manner? Risk her child being labeled a bastard if things did not go as Sherlock so confidently seemed to believe they would?

Yes, she thought as he completed his task of clearing the bed of excess pillows and carefully turning down the coverlet before turning to regard her from the short distance that separated them. Yes, she was. Because she loved him, and even though he'd proven himself less than a gentleman in his past behaviour, he'd never offered any direct and deliberate harm to her, nor to any woman, for that matter. He'd done terrible things to himself and had bedeviled his instructors at Oxford, but had done nothing so terrible that they hadn't forgiven him for his misdeeds – twice! – and welcomed him back. 

“You are reconsidering,” Sherlock said, his deep baritone interrupting her thoughts – not quite accurately, but certainly close enough to bring another blush to Molly's cheeks. “I beg of you, Molly, if you truly do not wish...that is to say, if you require more time to consider my offer...”

Sherlock sounded very unlike himself, hesitant and unsure, and the expression on his face showed an appealing vulnerability that Molly had only rarely seen on him before. She knew he was not dissembling; she was quite versed in reading his emotions after so much time spent in his company and under such varying circumstances, and knew when he was attempting to deceive her.

There was no deception in him right now, nor had there been since their arrival at this residence. Gathering her courage, she took a single step forward, then another, and another, until she came to rest directly in front of where he waited by the side of the bed. Without speaking, she laid her hand on his, waiting until he curled his fingers around hers before once again raising herself on the tips of her toes and pressing a tender kiss to his lips. “Very well, Mr. Holmes,” she whispered as his arms moved to encircle her slender form. “Pray, ruin me.”


	7. Brought to Ruin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, all! But here is the moment you've all been (hopefully!) waiting for. Warnings for a young lady willingly losing her virginity to the man she loves. :) One or two chapters after this, then the story is complete. Enjoy! Thanks to WickedWanton for some invaluable inside-Sherlock's-head insights and to everyone who's left reviews and followed and favorited and just plain read this. :)

The smile he gifted her with at her words of consent quite lit up his already attractive features, lending him an angelic aspect she otherwise would never have associated with Sherlock Holmes. His nimble fingers reached for her hair, finding and discarding the many pins that held her heavy tresses in place, and she very daringly reached up to toy with the buttons on his crisp white shirt, leaving her fingers very close to the elegant expanse of throat he'd revealed to her upon removal of his cravat.

She felt his fingers carding through her hair as the last of the pins went tumbling to the floor, and felt an overpowering urge to do the same to his disordered locks. The dark curls had always appealed to her, and she hadn't touched them since he'd been so ill when throwing off the effects of the drugs he'd taken his first year at Oxford. It had seemed to soothe him then, to offer him comfort even as he sweated and tossed on the narrow pallet she'd lain him on in her father's private laboratory, and she could understand why, now that he was doing the same to her under very different circumstances.

There was something extremely pleasant about feeling another person's fingers rubbing against your scalp, tugging lightly at your hair – ohhh, and sometimes not so lightly, Molly thought with a delicious shiver as Sherlock's grip tightened suddenly, causing her face to rise up toward his. “I'm going to kiss you now, Molly,” he said in a low growl. “Then I'm going to remove the remainder of my clothing, and then your own, and kiss you in other locations than your delectable lips.”

“O-oh, my, yes,” she breathed before his mouth covered hers. She felt his fingers plucking at the buttons on the back of her gown, and, emboldened by the hunger of his movements, stopped toying with his and began undoing his shirt in earnest. She gasped as she felt his tongue slide across her lower lip, and he used her startlement to invade her mouth, sweeping his tongue across hers and coaxing it into a passionate dance as his nimble fingers completed their task. 

Sherlock pulled back slightly, breaking off the kiss, his gaze burning into hers as he slid the fabric of her gown off her shoulders. The look in his eyes was one Molly would treasure for the rest of her life – a combination of hunger and need and unexpected tenderness that nearly undid her as he caught and held her gaze.

Afterward Molly couldn't recall the details of how the remainder of her clothing – chemise and petticoats and stockings and shoes – were removed, only that it seemed to happen rather suddenly. She was far too enrapt by the sight of Sherlock's nude form stood before her.

His skin was paler than hers, ivory and marble with bluish veins threading the flesh just below the surface. She allowed her eyes to linger on the parts of an adult male that she'd never seen before; the tops of his muscular thighs, the slight curve of his hips, the gingery hair that dusted his chest and sprouted around his erection.

A flush colored her cheeks as her gaze came to rest on that part of his anatomy. It seemed alarmingly large compared to the genitals of an infant, an angry red shading into purple where it jutted from his body. She bit her lip, wondering how it would feel inside her. Yes, a man was made to join with a woman, but Sherlock was so tall, she couldn't help but wonder how they would manage.

“It won't bite you, not yet, at least,” Sherlock said, his voice a teasing rumbled as he reached out to take her hands in his. She found herself unable to meet his eyes, a shyness stealing over her as she realized that the moment she'd longed for had arrived. Sherlock was going to make love to her, bring her to full womanhood, and very possibly (please God, let it be so), plant a child in her womb.

“I'm not afraid,” she found herself murmuring as he slowly, carefully, brought her hands closer to his body, lowering them until her her fingers hovered over the head of his – what was the word the dairy maid had used? Oh yes – his prick. Taking a deep breath, she allowed her fingers to glide over the bead of wetness gathering in his slit, and felt a great deal of satisfaction at the way his body tensed beneath her questioning touch, at the sound of a groan escaping his lips.

She was completely naked herself by now, her hair falling about her shoulders and tumbling down to partially obscure her breasts. Sherlock remedied that by brushing her chestnut locks back with a murmur of appreciation as her breasts were fully revealed to his eyes. She imagined he was studying her as closely as she was studying him, and his next words proved that prediction to be true: “Your figure, Molly, is nothing you should ever be ashamed of.”

She sucked in a deep breath at the feel of his hands on her breasts, ghosting over the very tips, teasing her nipples into hardened peaks as if his fingers were made of ice. She was trembling again as he leaned down to capture another kiss, pulling her body flush against his, interrupting her perusal of his slender, sculpted form. However, the tactile sensation of his arousal pressing against her hip and the curve of her belly was a more than adequate replacement; her eyes fluttered shut and she arced her hands up his back and shoulders as his lips moved down the column of her throat.

She had a moment of disorientation when he lifted her off her feet and carried her the few steps needed to lay her on the bed. During his pillow-removing frenzy he'd turned down the coverlet so that she rested on the cool sheets, a pristine white she knew would soon be stained with her virgin blood.

She knew she should feel some sort of shame at allowing Sherlock to do this to her; surely she should be worrying about the state of her immortal soul, or, at the very least, the state of her physical self if Sherlock's plan failed. She would be ruined in truth, if his father refused to allow them to wed. And her father would be horrified by her wanton behavior, no matter the outcome.

All those things should be vexing her, she realized as Sherlock joined her on the bed, resting on his side and regarding her out of those lovely blue-green eyes that seemed so often rimmed in frost. Not today; today they were filled with a warmth she instinctively understood she could easily fan into a flame. 

With that realization, any lingering doubts or fears she held dissolved, washed away by her certainty that, no matter the outcome, this was truly what she wanted.

oOo

Sherlock observed Molly closely as she continued to struggle with what her heart and body desired and what her mind told her she should not want. He'd offered her a chance to alter her decision, she'd declined, but in spite of the willingness – eagerness, even – to cooperate in his plans, he still worried that some part of her hadn't been completely convinced. No doubt she was considering the effect this plan would have on her relationship with her father; would he think less of her for offering herself to the man she loved before wedlock? And his own father, would he actually allow them to wed?

He dismissed such concerns from his own thoughts as irrelevant; he knew his own father well enough, and Molly's, to be confident in his predictions of their various reactions to the situation he intended to present to them. 

With that in mind, he returned his full attention to Molly Hooper and her delectable body, laid out for his enjoyment, a lovely blush suffusing her cheeks and coloring her chest. He gave in to the temptation to mark her in some way, laying his lips against her collarbone and sucking deeply into her flesh.

She gasped, her hands going up to come to rest on his shoulders, but instead of pushing him away she merely held him closer as he continued to worry at the tender flesh with teeth and lips. He grasped her arm with one hand and allowed the other to trail down her body, exulting in the goose pimples his fingers raised in their wake, in the delicious shivers that coursed over her body, and most of all, in the way her legs opened beneath his delicate touch.

He raised himself up, removing his mouth from her collarbone, ready to follow where his hand had lead. Molly gasped as his lips moved down to her chest, then gasped again as he dipped the tips of his fingers between her folds, already dewy and speaking of her desire for him.

His prick was nearly throbbing with need, but he was in no hurry to thrust himself into her. Not for her first time, which would be painful enough. And no matter how damp she was beneath his questing fingers, he knew he could bring her to the peak of pleasure if she allowed him to do to her what his various partners at the bordello had instructed him. An activity at which he'd proven to be a most apt – and eager – pupil. Although such experiments were far behind him now – he'd not entered such an establishment once he'd felt he'd received an adequate education in how to both give and receive physical pleasure – he found himself grateful that he'd allowed John to convince him to discover said pleasures in the first place. Else Molly might find his attentions far less enjoyable than she had so far.

With that in mind, he removed his hands and mouth from Molly's body, absurdly pleased by her soft moan of disappointment as he sat himself up on his knees in order to meet her heavy-lidded gaze. “Molly, there is something that I am going to do to you that you may find...odd. But I assure you, you will soon find your pleasure in it. Do you trust me?”

She looked up at him, lips half-parted, then nodded. “Always,” she said simply, and he felt his heart clench with a sensation he'd never felt before. As if it had been stopped, then restarted so that it now beat only for her.

He leaned forward, resting his hands on either side of her head as he took her mouth in a sweet kiss that soon turned heated. He nearly collapsed on top of her when he felt her tongue hesitantly touch his lips, initiating the contact in a way he'd never have expected from his shy young doctor's daughter.

With a groan he moved his lips away from hers, pressing a series of kisses along her jaw and down her neck, interspersed with nips and flicks of his tongue as she moaned and writhed beneath his attentions, her hands fluttering by her sides until he encouraged her to touch him in return. When she reached up and hesitantly curled her fingers about his biceps, he smiled in what he hoped was an encouraging manner, then returned his attentions to her body, impatient to taste the exquisite peaks of her rosy breasts.

He lavished attention to each in turn, kneading and kissing, licking and sucking until her moans became gasps and tiny cries of pleasure. Her face bore a tortured expression he recognized as one that he himself must have worn when being pleasured by the whores John had introduced him to.

That memory dimmed his ardor, but only for a moment. Molly already knew of his indiscretions during his first years at University, and had already forgiven him for speaking of them to her in so vulgar and cruel a manner, during his tortured recovery from his overuse of morphine. He would be sure to beg her forgiveness for having such unseemly relations with them as well – later. Much, much later, when he was no longer involved in showing her what he'd learned and discovering how many of the lessons he'd learned at their hands – and mouths – would bring her the most pleasure.

When he felt her breasts had been thoroughly enflamed by his mouth and hands, he resumed his slow downward perusal of her body, pressing soft kisses to her belly and hips and the tops of her thighs. She widened her legs without needing any prompting from him, and he murmured his appreciation of her actions into the tender flesh just above her soft mound.

His fingers once again delved between her legs, slipping between the folds of flesh that felt considerably wetter than they had only moment earlier. He smiled against the skin of her upper thigh, where his head had come to rest, then turned so that his mouth was very close to where his fingers currently resided.

With a flick of his tongue, he began introducing Molly to the joys of oral stimulation.

oOo

Molly gasped and moaned as Sherlock's mouth descended to her breasts, his hand kneading the tender flesh, lighting pinching her nipples before sucking them into his mouth. Oh, it was a sin, she was going to burn in hell for all eternity, but at this very moment she could not bring herself to do more than offer up a quick prayer for forgiveness – not for her actions, or those of her newly minted lover, but because of her enthusiasm as being so debauched outside of the marriage bed.

She'd never imagined how wonderful Sherlock's mouth would feel against her overheated flesh, having nothing to compare the sensations to before today. Yes, she'd dreamed of his kisses, but never on any part of her body other than her lips. To feel those same lips grazing the tips of her breasts, then the undersides, the flesh of her belly, her hips...

When he rested his head on the top of her inner thigh, the blushes that had started to ease returned full force; when he turned and pressed his mouth against her feminine center, the flush seemed to cover her from head to toe, a sheet of pure flame singeing her skin and setting every nerve afire.

Her hands, which had settled on his shoulders, twitched with energy, as if the invisible flames licking her skin had settled into her very bones. When Sherlock raised his head from her body to lock his gaze with hers, lips curled in a wicked smile that could rival the very Devil himself for sinfulness, she couldn't help the guttural moan that escaped her lips.

And when he told her, his voice husky and very, very smug, that she might be well advised to anchor herself by holding onto either the sheets or the hair on his head, she could have sworn the invisible flames beneath her skin were singing with pleasure.

She found the challenge in his voice irresistible, and rather than removing her hands from his person, sunk her fingers into the dark, tumbled masses of curls that adorned his head, hearing his own groan ripping from his throat to join the ones she was unable to refrain from uttering. Then his tongue flicked across the damp folds of her sex and her hips bucked instinctively, straining to meet the sweet torture of his mouth as he kissed her in the most obscene – and arousing – manner possible.

An angel, a devil...he was both to her now, and in her delirium of pleasure she was unable to articulate her thoughts, felt them scrambling and twisting even as her hips and thighs trembled and lurched beneath his sensuous ministrations. There was a feeling in her belly and between her legs she'd never experienced before, even during her own fumbling attempts at exploring her own body; a rising rippling that spread and grew until her heart was pounding and her breaths came in sharp pants as her fingers clutched themselves into Sherlock's hair and Molly's very thoughts shattered into a million glorious pieces as she shrieked out her pleasure.

When she came back to herself, trembling and gasping, eyes fluttering open (when had she closed them?), Sherlock had brought himself from between her legs and now rested with his head on her shoulder. Her fingers might have cramped a bit from their desperate hold on his tangled locks, but it was difficult to tell as he was holding both her hands in his, gently rubbing the abused digits with his own. “I trust your cries were not of pain, Molly,” he said, his voice gently teasing as he brought her hands to his lips for a soft kiss that might have been described as chaste if not for the decidedly devilish sparkle in his eyes – and the way he slid his tongue between her index and middle fingers in a motion that could never be described as anything but erotic.

She couldn't seem to find the words to respond to him, especially not when he continued to run his tongue between her fingers, pressing kisses to their tips now and again, his eyes on hers as her mouth parted on a gasp and remained that way until he finally moved up and once again pressed his lips to hers.

The taste of her lingered on his lips and tongue, but instead of being disgusted or repulsed, she found that the very wickedness of tasting herself on his mouth only brought her arousal, so recently sated, back to existence. “Sherlock, you've not yet made good on your word,” she murmured as he moved his mouth to the side of her throat, working the soft flesh between his teeth and lips. “I fear I am far from ruined as yet.”

He raised himself up on his elbows, nudging one leg between hers. “Well, then, Miss Hooper, I believe it is time I remedied that ungentlemanly lack. I wish only to hear from your own, sweet lips that you are certain this is what you want.”

The seriousness of his expression belied the lightness of his tone, and Molly found her lower lip between her teeth as she carefully examined her emotions. Was this truly what she wanted, to allow Sherlock to take from her – no, to freely offer to him – a woman's most precious treasure, the one gift she could never reclaim once it was given?

She thought of a future without him in her life, and her answer came easily to her lips, with no further consideration required. “Yes,” she said simply, and he smiled, a tender, grateful smile she'd never seen on his face before.

He kissed her again as he shifted so that he lay completely between her thighs, the heat of his erection – his prick, she reminded herself with a further flush of arousal – lying hard and hot on her belly. She felt its loss keenly when he lifted himself above her, reaching down with one hand as he prepared to enter her.

He hesitated, and Molly lifted her eyes to meet his, worried that he'd suddenly changed his mind, but the decidedly wolfish grin on his lips told her how ridiculous such fears were. “Molly, if you wouldn't mind, it would please me greatly if you would do the honors.”

Uncertain as to his meaning, she felt her eyebrows lower in confusion, then gasped as he tugged her hand down until her fingertips rested on his heated shaft. Without conscious thought she found her hand wrapped around his thick length, and heard a groan of purest pleasure tear itself from his throat as he thrust himself against her just the slightest bit. “Dear God, yes,” he gasped, and she felt a surge of mingled pride and pleasure at having such an effect on him simply by grasping him in a motion no different to the way she might hold the handle of a bucket.

But no bucket could feel like this, so warm and solid, yet yielding to her touch. She shyly slid one finger up so that it pressed against the tip of his shaft, gently investigating the weeping slit at its head for the second time, and Sherlock gave out a strangled curse before lowering his hips so that there was very little space remaining between them. “For God's sake, Molly, please, I'm not sure I can maintain control if you continue to bedevil me like this,” he gasped, and she obediently moved her hand where he guided her, placing the tip of his shaft against her opening before releasing him.

Both her hands crept up to press themselves to his shoulders, and she nodded as his eyes met hers, easing her legs apart in order to better accommodate his form. Then he was moving against her and her eyes fluttered shut at the sensation of his prick entering her body, battering at her feminine barrier...and then, with a tearing, burning sensation, fully penetrating.

The deed was done: Molly Hooper was utterly, thoroughly ruined by Sherlock Holmes.

And she had never felt happier.


	8. In Consequence of Previous Actions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock faces both his father and Dr. Hooper when they discover the results of his tryst with Molly.

Two Months Later

“Sherlock!”

The sound of his father's angry shout brought the younger Holmes brother into the front hall at a smart trot. He maintained an expression of sober inquiry as he came to a stop directly in front of a red-faced and extremely irate Tarquin Holmes. “Yes, Father? Is something amiss?”

His father's face grew even redder, were such a thing possible, and Sherlock absently wondered if this was finally the apoplectic fit Dr. Hooper had been predicting for so long. “You know very well what is 'amiss', Sherlock,” Tarquin growled. “Dr. Hooper has just informed me that his daughter is pregnant. And that you are the father.”

Sherlock bowed his head, the better to hide his satisfied smile. Molly had done as they'd planned, spoken to her father once she was certain of her condition. The smile threatened to broaden into a pleased smirk as he recalled their first union at Baker Street...as well as the three other clandestine liaisons that had followed, the last one in a secluded glen in the forest that bordered the northern end of the Holmes property. Molly had ostensibly gone to gather wild herbs and mushrooms, while he had been off riding, being sure to be seen going in the opposite direction before doubling back and joining her for a very delightful interlude.

Molly had proven to be much less bashful about removing her clothing outdoors than he'd predicted; the fact that the glen was known only to the two of them and perhaps his father's gamekeeper (who had been laid up with the gout at the time) seemed to weaken her natural reticence toward such societally frowned-upon behavior. He quite looked forward to a lifetime of discovering and removing such sexual inhibitions – but only after they were properly wed. Which, he concluded, would be not far in the future so long as his father reacted as Sherlock so confidently predicted he would.

Bearing that desired result in mind, he looked up at his father, his own expression grave. “Miss Hooper is not a liar, Father. If she names me as her child's father, then that undoubtedly is the truth of the matter.” He glanced around, mildly curious as to where Dr. Hooper was; surely he, too, should be involved in venting his ire at the man who had ‘ruined’ his daughter.

‘Ruined’ her. Sherlock mentally shook his head. If anything, Molly was a more interesting woman than she had been before he put his plans into motion, never ceasing to surprise him. And now there was a child on the way, his child, and he felt an unexpected jolt of pleasure at the thought of raising their son or daughter with Molly. He’d never held any desire to become a parent before, and now it seemed to be all he could think about.

“Into my study,” his father snapped out, as if only now realizing that he'd created a scene in so public an area. Sherlock reluctantly brought his mind back into the present, noting the way his father’s eyes darted about, as if searching for any lurking forms. He refrained from rolling his own eyes, but only barely; the servants were all well aware of their master's temper, and would most studiously avoid his presence upon hearing him so irate. No doubt all that were within hearing range were relieved it was one of his own offspring who had caused his displeasure rather than any of them.

Once the imposing mahogany doors had been closed – and locked – behind them, Sherlock's father retreated behind his equally imposing desk, hands steepled beneath his chin as he gazed angrily at his son.

Sherlock remained standing; after a lifetime spent learning to gauge his father's moods, he knew when he was expected to act the penitent, and when he was allowed some leeway. Today he was A Problem rather than his father's youngest son. A Problem which needed to be dealt with.

“If you’re wondering where Dr. Hooper is, I sent him away, told him I’d deal with you – and the situation you’ve apparently created – myself, that I would inform him of my decision as soon as I’d reached one.”

‘His’ decision, Sherlock noted wryly. As if Sherlock had no say in the matter. “And what will that decision be, Father?” he asked, keeping his tone mild. “Surely you won’t risk the family name and reputation by having me denounce Molly Hooper’s claims. Which, I can assure you, are quite true. I am the father of her child.”

His father’s glare darkened. “You sound as if you wish to acknowledge this child, to be forced into marriage with this girl!”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at his father, although his hands remained clasped behind his back. “You've spent my entire life telling me that I need to take responsibility for my actions, Father, and that the family name is never to be dishonored. I would think you'd be pleased to see that I have, indeed, taken those instructions to heart.”

He kept his tone even and civil, although he couldn't quite manage 'humble and contrite', as much as he knew such an attitude would help to bring out the desired outcome. Well, the outcome he desired, at least; what his father wanted, clearly, was for Sherlock to deny that he was the father of Molly Hooper's child, so that the marriage Lord Holmes had arranged for him could still go forward. Molly would be then removed from the estate, given to some lunk of a farmer or tradesman as a wife, and the scandal would be swept under the carpet before anyone could become aware of it. And if Dr. Hooper were inclined to make trouble on his daughter’s behalf, Tarquin Holmes was quite ruthless enough to terminate his employment and cast him out.

That was a game Sherlock absolutely refused to play. Even if he weren't responsible for Molly’s current condition, he would never allow such a fate to befall her or her father. He squared his shoulders and looked his father directly in the eyes. “As the father of Miss Hooper's unborn child, I of course accept the responsibility incumbent upon me to preserve her good name, as well as our own. I shall marry her. With your permission, of course,” he added.

“What of your betrothal to Miss Masterson?” his father asked, with no sign of his fury diminishing. “Her father and I have already begun the negotiations, you know this! The announcement is to be made before your return to Oxford; am I to set aside that arrangement, cause a scandal for her family in order for you to preserve the reputation of your strump – ”

Before Sherlock even knew he was going to move he’d slapped his hands down so they laid flat on his father's desk, his head lowered so that he could stare directly into the older man's eyes as he growled, “I would advise you to select your words with care, Father. Miss Hooper is the daughter of an old and trusted retainer. The responsibility for the actions that resulted in our...indiscretion...is mine and mine alone. She is not at fault, and I will not have you laying blame at her feet. Or calling her any name other than 'Daughter'.”

“Nor will I.”

Both men turned to stare at the newcomer. Lady Iris had entered via the French doors that lead out into the gardens. She held a basket of flowers over one arm and a pair of secateurs gripped tightly in the opposite hand, and her expression was as thunderous as a stormy day in winter. She moved into the room at a stately pace, every inch the lady – and every inch the stalking tiger about to pounce as she locked eyes with her flabbergasted husband. “Sherlock has been indiscreet, yes, but the young lady in question is one we’ve known her entire life, Tarquin. Her father may not hold a peerage but he is an exemplary physician and has served this family well and faithfully ever since taking up his duties here. Mycroft has already sacrificed his happiness in the name of marrying well; it seems ridiculous to subject both of our sons to a lifetime of marital unhappiness simply to satisfy your desire to increase the family coffers – which, as you well know, are already overflowing and in no danger of being depleted within the lifetimes of either our sons or their children – or to bring further prestige to the Holmes name. Which, again, is in no danger of suffering more than a minor bruising in light of Sherlock’s marriage to a woman not of his station.”

Both Sherlock and his father remained silent during Lady Iris’s uncharacteristic outburst, Sherlock out of respect and admiration, Tarquin clearly out of shock that his wife would defy him in such a manner – and in front of their son, when any previous disagreements between husband and wife had taken place entirely behind closed doors. “Iris,” Tarquin finally managed to say as she fell silent, standing next to him so that he was forced to look up at her from his seat behind his desk, “what is the meaning of this…” Words seemed to fail him, and Sherlock bit back a sardonic smile at the sight of his father so discommoded – and by his wife, of all people, the woman who’d submitted to his will without so much as a murmur of complaint her entire married life, or at least the part of it their son had been able to observe.

Iris leaned down just the slightest bit, the secateurs in her hand accidentally – purposefully? – drifting close to her husband’s throat as she prepared to speak once again. This time Sherlock was entirely unable to hide his smile as his father’s eyes widened and he shrank back in his seat just the slightest amount before seeming to realize what he was doing and straightening himself haughtily. “Tarquin, you will grant Sherlock permission to marry Miss Hooper. The banns will be posted immediately and the wedding will take place as soon as they are read. Or else I will personally escort the two of them to Scotland and stand witness to their marriage in Gretna Green.”

Tarquin’s face, already rather pale, blanched further, and Sherlock knew that he’d much prefer a scandalously swift wedding to one that announced his own refusal to sanctify his son’s marriage. The former would be a scandal only involving his son’s reputation, the latter would have far more serious repercussions to his own. And that, Sherlock knew, he would never allow. Certainly not in the face of his wife’s quiet determination.

“With your permission, Father, I will speak with Dr. Hooper regarding this matter now,” Sherlock said as the silence between his parents continued. He admired the look of calm resolve on his mother’s face more than he reveled in his father’s continued discomfiture. Tarquin Holmes looked like a man trapped between the proverbial rock and a hard place, and Sherlock felt with a certain amount of satisfaction that it was past time his father occupied such an uncomfortable site.

A long moment passed before Tarquin finally turned his head to face his son. His lips were tightly pressed together, his cheeks once again flushed an angry red, but the short, sharp nod he gave was all the permission Sherlock required. He bowed his head to indicate his thanks, smiled warmly at his mother, then turned and left his parents to sort through the consequences of this fraught meeting in private, out of respect for his mother. A respect that he’d always held, but which now had grown immeasurably.

He’d always known she was fond of Molly. Her intervention in this matter had been something he’d not – relied upon, not precisely, but certainly something he’d entered into his calculations, although he’d anticipated having to seek her out on his own and press his cause to her before mutually confronting his father.

His satisfied smile dwindled a bit as he mentally prepared himself for the meeting with Dr. Hooper, which he expected to go poorly. Yes, the man would of course agree to allow Sherlock to marry his daughter, considering her condition and his own lack of denial as to being the one to cause said condition, but it certainly wasn’t the future Dr. Hooper had envisioned for his daughter.

Almost the instant he found his feet on the path leading to the comfortable house holding Dr. Hooper’s medical practice and laboratory, he beheld Molly’s father waiting for him. Surprise slowed Sherlock’s pace for a moment, but he briskly resumed his normal walking speed and joined the other man where he rested on the low wall that delineated the kitchen garden.

Sherlock came to a stop in front of the older man and nodded his head courteously, waiting for Molly’s father to speak. Although the conversation they needed to have would be better served in the privacy of the doctor’s study, there was no one about to overhear them. Their privacy was assured, unless one of them elected to raise their voices, which Sherlock had never known Dr. Hooper to do under any circumstances.

“Mr. Holmes, I presume I was correct in naming you as the father of the child my daughter is carrying?”

Sherlock nodded. “I can assure you, Dr. Hooper, that if Molly claims me as the child’s father, that is entirely the case. I was on my way to speak to you on the matter, having received my father’s permission to…”

Dr. Hooper interrupted him with an angry snort. “My daughter claims no one as the child’s father, as she has yet to inform me of her condition.” 

Sherlock felt his eyes widen and his mouth drop open; if Molly had not spoken to her father, then how had…well, of course he was a physician familiar with the signs of pregnancy, but how had he known Sherlock was the father?

The older man’s expression softened a bit, a hint of a smile on his lips as he said, “What, Mr. Holmes, have I shocked you with my deductions? Did you think I was unaware of the fact that you have been wooing my daughter ever since your return from Oxford? That I did not notice the fact that the doctor you recommended to me was a married man who had no intentions of remaining here to take over my practice when my health finally failed me?” He tapped his wedding band, which he’d never removed in spite of his wife’s death, and the smile fully emerged, grim and just slightly triumphant. “There was a paleness on Dr. Watson’s ring finger that spoke of a recently removed ring. However, he said nothing of having recently lost a wife, which he surely would have mentioned during one of our many conversations after his arrival, especially once I began the delicate process of hinting to him that a marriage between himself and Molly would not be disagreeable to me. His abrupt departure to care for an ailing ‘sister’ immediately caught my attention, as did the curious need of my daughter’s assistance in the matter – and your presence did not go unnoted, either. Shall I go on, Mr. Holmes, or have I satisfied your curiosity as to my reasoning in believing you to be the rogue who treated my daughter in so ungentlemanly a manner?”

By the end of this speech, his voice and expression had both hardened back into anger, and Sherlock meekly acknowledged his guilt by lowering his eyes, removing his hat, and nodding. “You are correct on all counts, sir. I only ask that you hold neither Miss Hooper nor Dr. Watson accountable for my actions; I convinced them both into actions that neither would have otherwise contemplated.”

“Yes, you can be rather persuasive, young man,” Dr. Hooper interjected with a grumble. “And my daughter, unfortunately, has always been too susceptible to your questionable charms.” He sighed. “However, she is also in love with you and has been for many years. Too many years for me to try and stand between the two of you. Even if I were inclined to find an agreeable widower who would be willing to take an expectant mother to wife, that would make my daughter miserable. Only the fact that I believe it would also make you miserable has kept me from entirely discarding it as an option. But if your father has agreed to the marriage, then I do so as well, although with, I think you will agree, understandable reservations.” He peered up at Sherlock with a frown. “I know how my daughter feels about you, Mr. Holmes. The question is, how do you feel about her? Do you love her, sir?”

Sherlock considered the question carefully before answering, knowing that if he simply said yes, that Dr. Hooper, who had proven himself to be even more astute and discerning that Sherlock had credited him, would believe him to simply be saying what Molly’s father wanted to hear. “I have a great deal of affection for Molly,” he finally said, choosing his words with great care. “She has proven her affection to me in many ways over the years that we have known one another…” Another snort from Dr. Hooper indicated his opinion of that choice of words, which Sherlock acknowledged with a grimace and a shrug. “Present circumstances aside, I sincerely hope that you understand that I mean she has always been there for me when I most needed her, has always been willing to put aside her own needs for mine even when I did not deserve such devotion.”

Dr. Hooper had never been directly informed of Sherlock’s brief flirtation with morphine, but he showed his knowledge of that painful time in his daughter’s life with a curt nod and a “Yes, she has.”

When he fell silent after that, Sherlock took it as tacit permission for him to continue, and did so. “Dr. Hooper, your daughter is an intelligent, loyal young woman who is all I could hope for in a wife. I find that I wish to make her happy, to put her needs above my own, and to be a good father to our child and any other children we might have in the future. I hope that will be enough, along with my deep affection for her, to convince you to allow us to wed.”

After a moment spent studying Sherlock’s face, Dr. Hooper gave another curt nod. “Very well, Mr. Holmes. You have my permission to marry my daughter, and to inform her of my decision while I speak with your parents.”

Sherlock hadn’t dared to hope to be allowed to see Molly so soon after this confrontation with her father, and wasted no time in thanking the man. He held out his hand, uncertain if Dr. Hooper would accept it, but he took it into his grasp with no hesitation. His handshake was firm and uncompromising, and Sherlock felt himself relax just the tiniest bit, the tension coiled so tightly inside him finally easing. The two hurdles to his future happiness with Miss Molly Hooper had been passed, and very soon she would be Mrs. Sherlock Holmes.

He couldn’t wait to inform her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! Only one more chapter to go and this delightful romp is concluded. Hope you've enjoyed reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it! Thank you for all your kind reviews and kudosing.


	9. With Deepest Affection

“Well, brother, I am given to understand that congratulations are due you.”

Sherlock gave his elder brother a sardonic look as he folded his arms across his chest. Mycroft had appeared by his side as he stood in the garden, having a clandestine smoke. His mother decried both her son’s habit of taking the occasional pipe, claiming that the aroma of tobacco unsettled her stomach and made her lungs ache, so they had both taken to smoking only out of doors when their mother was in the house, and never within her sight. He puffed and waited for Mycroft to say whatever it was he felt he needed to say, certain that he was about to be chastised since, despite the nature of Mycroft’s opening comment, the tone with which the words had been spoken conveyed a great deal of disapproval.

As predicted, the next thing Mycroft said was: “Or perhaps I should say, you have my commiseration? Father informs me that you are being forced to wed the Hooper girl due to her ‘delicate condition’. Which of course invalidates your betrothal to Miss Masterson. A pity, that.”

He took out his own pipe and commenced packing in the tobacco, not meeting his brother’s eyes as Sherlock turned to glower at him. “Stop it, Mycroft,” he snapped in irritation. “Playing the innocent hardly suits you. You know very well this is exactly the outcome I desired.”

Only after he’d applied a lucifer to the pipe bowl and had taken a few, contemplative puffs did Mycroft respond to his brother’s irritable words. “Yes, of course I know,” he drawled. “But Father must be placated, else he will become even more difficult to live with. And since you and I will no longer be residing here – I presume you and your bride-to-be will take up permanent residence at Baker Street after your wedding? – only Mother will be left to bear the brunt of his temper. If he feels that I am on his side, he will be less inclined to hurl abuse at all and sundry.” He smirked, still without looking at Sherlock. “So do be sure to glower at me – just as you are now, little brother – and I shall be sure to throw disapproving glares in your direction at every opportunity.”

Sherlock couldn’t help a snort of amusement. “In other words, Mycroft, we shall go on as usual.”

“Exactly.”

“You are wrong about one thing, of course,” Sherlock said after a moment of companionable silence had been spent smoking. He felt Mycroft’s impassive gaze on him and quirked his lips in a small smile as he contemplated the rose bushes in his direct line of sight. “Molly and I shall not be moving to Baker Street as of yet. Her father will still require her assistance until the time of her confinement is upon her, and of course I have pledged to assist Dr. Hooper in finding an appropriate replacement for Dr. Watson. A young man who actually wishes to take up a position rusticating in the countryside for the rest of his life, at our father’s beck and call for every imagined ailment.”

“Good of you to do so,” Mycroft drawled. “And good of Dr. Hooper to trust you in this matter since you so neatly sabotaged his last efforts in your usual selfish need to satisfy your personal desires ahead of those of others.”

With that last jab, he dumped out the bowl of his pipe, ground the ashes into the dirt path beneath his feet, and turned back toward the house. Sherlock considered hurling one of the many ripostes that sprang to mind after him, then decided it was hardly worth the effort. Let Mycroft think he'd won this round of the endless verbal jousting between the two brothers; he, Sherlock, had far more pleasant matters on which to think.

Such as Molly’s stunned reaction when he’d informed her of their impending nuptials...

**Two Hours Previous**

“Wait, what? My father…but how did he…I wasn’t entirely certain myself, how could he…” Molly spluttered in confusion when Sherlock appeared unannounced on her doorstep. She’d been in the process of carefully weighing and measuring out dosages of foxglove and other medicaments, standing in front of the mortar and pestle with a pair of tiny fabric bags clutched in one hand as she stared up at him, confusion writ large on her expressive features.

He wasted no time in striding to her side and kissing her on the cheek while she gaped at him in shock. “Our fathers have agreed that we are to be wed as soon as the Banns are read, isn’t that marvelous news? Although neither of them are particularly pleased at how we arrived at this outcome, both agree that it is the best recourse under the circumstances.” Then he grinned at her, knowing how self-satisfied he both sounded and looked, and not caring. He’d won the woman he lov…wait, where had that come from, that word his mind had almost used?

Although he’d not used the word when Dr. Hooper had confronted him, once face to face with his daughter, it was the first one that had sprung to mind, in an unguarded moment of real happiness.

Love.

Did he love her? 

His thoughts degenerated into an incoherent mess, while Molly struggled with the knowledge that her father was aware of her condition – and had deduced on his own who was the responsible party.

She babbled something to Sherlock, stammering a bit as if suddenly overwhelmed by the knowledge that their actions had resulted in the creation of a living creature, that the careful plans Sherlock had laid for their shared future were actually coming to pass – and then went utterly silent when he interrupted her by blurting out, “Your father wishes to know if I love you.”

Molly's face, which had paled as she took in the news he'd come to deliver, turned even whiter, then suddenly flushed a deep red. It was far darker than the becoming shade of pink she turned when in the midst of sexual congress, although accompanied by similar facial expressions and many of the same gestures – widened eyes, opened mouth, even fluttering hands that seemed not to know where to come to rest as she stared at him. “What did you tell him?” she finally asked, and it seemed to Sherlock that she was even more interested in knowing his answer than Dr. Hooper had been.

Oh, stupid, of course she was; how could she not be, when it was her own happiness at stake and not merely that of another person, no matter how beloved? “I told him I held you in the greatest esteem, and that I would endeavor to give you the kind of life you deserve,” he replied, feeling his heart skip a beat when her expression fell.

“Oh,” she'd said. Just the one, tiny interjection, 'oh' and nothing else.

That was it, the moment when the proverbial penny finally dropped, the scales were lifted from his eyes, and Sherlock Holmes was given to understand the true nature of his affection toward this woman.

Molly, on the other hand, not being privy to his thunderstruck thoughts, had already turned away from him, eyes downcast and mouth set in an unhappy line.

No. Intolerable. He would not simply allow her to leave, not when it was within his power to restore the smile to her face. Sherlock reached out impulsively and took her hand in his, tugging at it until she reluctantly turned to face him.

She sighed, not meeting his eyes as she said softly, “Yes, Sherlock? I do have things to do. And my father, I should find him so that he can tell me how recklessly I've behaved...”

He silenced her with a kiss. A soft kiss, a gentle kiss – and yes, he would use the word – a loving kiss. After a startled moment she allowed herself to return the kiss, eyes fluttering shut and a soft sigh escaping her lips when it ended.

It was only in that moment that he realized he'd taken her hands in his, and only when he found himself down on one knee that he realized what he was about to do.

A sudden intake of breath told him that she had come to the same realization. Still clasping both her hands in his, Sherlock looked up at her, smiled and said, “Molly Hooper, would you do me the very great honor of becoming my wife? Not only are you the most singularly intelligent woman I've ever met – and yes, I do include the females that I've met at University in that statement – but your kindness, gentle humor and patience have never wavered toward me, even when I did nothing to deserve them, even in the face of my own crass stupidity and insensitivity. For those reasons alone you should turn me down, but for the sake of our child – and because I have come to realize that the answer to your father's question is a resounding, unequivocal 'yes' – I hope that your response will be a positive one.”

She burst into tears before tugging him back up to his feet, throwing her arms around his neck and murmuring “Yes, yes, yes,” against his shoulder. He held her, feeling awkward and proud and even the smallest bit frightened at the ferocity of her reaction, but eventually settled into simply letting the moment wash over him, much as her tears were. The proposal had been spontaneous – and utterly unnecessary as they were going to be married whether he said the words or not. However, Molly's reaction told him, with no room for uncertainty or misinterpretation, that he'd somehow managed to stumble upon exactly the right thing to do.

“I do think Mrs. Sherlock Holmes will suit you much better than Miss Molly Hooper,” he murmured as she shyly released her hold on him. He captured her hands once again, reluctant to allow her to leave his presence just yet; after all, it was doubtful they’d be allowed any time alone together after this moment. Even though the damage, as it were, had already been done, the proprieties would no doubt be much more strictly enforced until the wedding had taken place. He raised Molly’s hands to his lips, pressing a pair of soft kisses to her knuckles, then pulled her close to cover her mouth with his own for a much more satisfying kiss.

A kiss, and a promise. Within a fortnight, no later than that, this woman would be his wife. And if everything went well, God willing (not that he believed in such, however, it wouldn’t hurt to hedge his bets, as John would put it), in seven more months she would be the mother of his child as well.

A girl, he hoped, decision made in that very moment, although he knew very well that any such decisions were well out of his hands. With Molly’s eyes and hair and laugh and nose…

The sound of a throat being cleared disrupted his thoughts; Molly pulled away from him with an embarrassed gasp, and he turned to find their cook giving them a frosty look, plump arms folded across her chest. “Miss Hooper, your father has just arrived and is waiting for you in his study,” the older woman said, her voice as cold and disapproving as her expression. “I pray you will excuse her, Mr. Holmes?”

Although voiced as a question, it was more of a command, and Sherlock bit back on his desire to offer the woman the sharp side of his tongue for interrupting the tender moment he and Molly had been sharing. “Of course,” was all he said, stepping out of the way so that Molly could move past him. “Do forgive us the indiscretion,” he called out as the cook made to follow Molly. “My fiancée and I were just a bit caught up in the moment.”

The cook – he never could remember her name – gaped at him incredulously, and he gave her a cheeky wink and a wave as he exited the house. Although it would no doubt be good manners to offer to accompany Molly to her meeting with her father, he knew Dr. Hooper would not welcome his presence at this time, and that Molly was certainly strong enough to endure such mild chastisement as her father might be inclined to bestow upon her. No, the old man loved his daughter far too much to remain angry with her for long – if, indeed, he had been angry with her in the first place. It seemed much more likely that he’d reserved such emotion for his future son-in-law, and deservedly so.

Now, two hours later, standing in the rose garden with his brother at his side, Sherlock once again found his thoughts drifting to the future, a future even two short years ago he never could have anticipated. Nor would he have believed it to be a future he desired; to be married, to be a father, especially after witnessing his brother’s unhappiness and the cool formality that existed between his parents, not to mention the devastating loss the Hoopers had experienced when Molly’s mother had died. Even his Baker Street housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson, had been married to a scoundrel that he’d helped put away in prison – much to her gratitude. And Inspector Lestrade’s marriage was not without acrimony, as his wife seemed incapable of fidelity. Not to mention the affair Anderson was carrying on with Miss Donovan…

And yet, in spite of the many, many poor examples of matrimony life had set before him, he looked forward to his own nuptials with impatience. Yes, he wished to continue the carnal relationship he and Molly had begun in order to set this entire series of events in motion, but it was much, much more than that.

He loved her. It was that complicated, and that simple. He loved her, she loved him, and he vowed in that moment to never give her cause to doubt him, or to regret her actions.

Two weeks. In two weeks, no longer, they would be wed.

He could hardly wait for the day to arrive.


	10. You Are Cordially Invited

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I promised a final chapter and a possible epilogue, but I have so many WIPs (posted and unposted), that I have come to the conclusion that this story is complete. I hope this final chapter doesn't disappoint, and I want to thank each every one of my lovely reviewers for their kind and encouraging words. Off to work on the next chapter of "Arranged" and assorted other projects!

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this Man and this Woman in holy Matrimony...”

Sherlock found himself utterly unable to attend the minister's words, lost in an entirely unexpected daze at the realization that the woman standing by his side, Miss Molly Hooper, was actually in the process of becoming his wife.

Molly, for her part, looked completely composed, her eyes forward and giving every appearance of taking in every word being spoken. She’d never looked lovelier, with her rose gown and matching bonnet, her hair curled into an elaborate style which he’d never seen her wearing previous to this occasion and which he presumed was his mother’s doing. 

Or, he thought, perhaps it was due to the influence of her matron of honor, Mrs. John Watson, who stood next to her husband opposite Sherlock and Molly. John's wife was something of a fashion plate, although never in such a manner as to tax their budget; try as he had during the early days of their marriage, Sherlock recalled with an internal wince, he never could fault Mary for her handling of the pursestrings. 

Mary remained in his thoughts for no longer than that as Sherlock's restless mind – and eyes – settled once more on Molly Hooper's slender form. Beneath the high waistline of her gown the slight roundness of her abdomen showed not at all, although she was nearly three months gone with his child.

A smile threatened to break out over his face but he sternly held it back. To be seen smiling fondly at his wife in the midst of their wedding would give away far too much to the curious eyes of his father and brother; although Mycroft surely knew by now that Sherlock would never have allowed this situation to occur did he not love the lady in question, their father was certain to pounce on such knowledge as a weapon to be wielded against his youngest son in the future. It was simply how the man's mind worked. Better he should continue to believe that Sherlock had allowed himself to be trapped like an untried yokel, that this marriage was a duty he was carrying out, and that he was fond of Molly and nothing more.

No, Sherlock was resolved that his father would never have the opportunity to try and use Molly and his grandchild as pawns or tools. Which was why they would repair to the Baker Street residence in London once Molly's father felt comfortable turning his practice entirely over to his new partner – a young Irishman he'd found on his own through his associates in the medical field, declining (quite courteously if somewhat wryly) Sherlock's (entirely sincere this time) offer to find him an acceptable replacement for John Watson.

He was jolted back into the present by the nudge of a discreet elbow in his ribs. He met the minister's amused gaze, staring blankly at him as the older man repeated his words. “Do you, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, take this woman, Margaret Elizabeth Anne Hooper, to be your wedded wife? To have and to hold from this day forward, cleaving only unto her, for as long as you both shall live?”

Sherlock managed to stutter out a dazed-sounding “I do” and turned to face Molly, who spoke her own affirmation of the vow in a clear, strong voice. Her smile was the sweetest thing he'd ever seen as she raised her hand and allowed Sherlock to slip the simple gold band he'd chosen for her onto her finger. Curious; he'd fully expected her to be the more nervous of the two of them today, yet his was the one that hand trembled a bit, while hers remained steady and warm in his shaky grasp. 

“I now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride.”

With those words – and yet another friendly nudge from John – Sherlock leaned down and pressed a chaste kiss to Molly’s lips. 

It was done; they were wed. 

The daze that had fallen upon him as the ceremony concluded remained as congratulations were offered, the women pressed kisses to his and Molly's cheeks, and his hand was shaken by the men. It persisted all through the wedding supper; toasts were offered to his and Molly's health, he did recall that much, although of their actual content he could never be certain. Nor could he describe one single item on the menu, nor the taste of the wine with the meal or the port after, when the ladies – his wife included – had left the men in the dining room and departed for wherever it was they went whenever the cigars came out.

The daze only eased slightly once his wife was away from his side, for the first time since she'd joined him in front of the oversized fireplace in the main parlor. They'd been wed by special license, his father's way of daring anyone to comment on the briefness of his youngest son's engagement, and the broken almost-engagement to Miss Masterson that had preceded it. He still could taste nothing of his port or the cigar that was thrust upon him by his brother, but at least now he could partake of the conversation with some semblance of intelligence.

That momentary return to his customary awareness of the world around him vanished as quickly as it had returned once the men repaired to the formal parlor where the ceremony had taken place. And all because his wife, the newly christened Mrs. Sherlock Holmes, was waiting there for him.

She was standing near the French doors, speaking quietly to Mary and his mother, and he found himself unable to move further into the room as soon as his eyes came to rest on her slender form. As if she felt his gaze upon her, she looked up and offered a shy smile before dipping her head in response to something Mary had just said.

He felt (yet again) an elbow jostling his ribs and stumbled into the room, still unable to fully comprehend that this moment, the one he'd planned so carefully for, had actually arrived. Molly truly was his wife; their child rested safely within her womb, and very shortly the two of them would repair to the bridal suite that had been prepared for them in the west wing. They would leave in the morning for an abbreviated tour of the Continent – Paris, Rome, and a surprise visit to Switzerland, which he knew Molly had always wished to visit – and return in a month, long before she would begin to show. It had all been meticulously planned out by his father – with only Sherlock's insistence on the week in Switzerland upsetting the applecart in any way – in order to achieve just that face-saving goal.

Once they were back in England, he would be allowed to retire from the social scene into which his position had always forced him, and he would conclude as much of his studies as he could before Molly's confinement brought him back home. He had already made arrangements with his various professors to pursue a correspondence course to complete his chemistry degree, which had been met with much less resistance than he'd anticipated. His father's generous donations to the department no doubt helped as much as his own reputation for disrupting Oxford's normally staid and hallowed halls.

He had already set aside his work with Inspector Lestrade's Bow Street Runners until such time as he and Molly were able to make a permanent move to London. The man had raised a politely disbelieving eyebrow when Sherlock informed of the reason for his hiatus, then chuckled and shaken his head as he declared, “Well, then Mr. Holmes, if you've found a woman mad enough to take you, I daresay it's no wonder you wish to hurry up the wedding, before she returns to her senses!” Then he'd turned serious, thrusting out his hand and offering up his congratulations.

In gratitude for the man's sincerity and the work he'd promised Sherlock could take up once again when convenient, he did not inform Lestrade that his wife had yet again taken a lover.

None of that was on his mind as John and his father followed him into the room. All he could think of, all he could see, was the radiant form of his wife. Everything else faded into insignificance as he made his way to her side. Murmuring some form of apology to Mary, he offered Molly his arm and hurried her out through the French doors, closing them firmly behind them.

Molly giggled as he sped up his steps, raising her gown in one hand – thankfully the bonnet had long since vanished – and hurrying to keep up with his swift pace. “Sherlock, please slow down,” she gasped as he led her around a corner, the graveled path crunching beneath their feet.

He not only slowed his steps but halted them entirely as soon as he was certain they were out of view of the house. Molly's giggles became a surprised squeal as he pressed her against the trunk of the nearest oak tree, lowering his mouth to hers to capture a far more satisfying kiss than the one that had concluded their wedding ceremony only a few brief hours ago. The kiss seemed to relieve the daze that had fallen over his mind, as his thoughts focused on only one thing: this woman was his wife, his and his alone.

And he wouldn't wait to lie with her another moment longer. To the devil with propriety and the houseful of family and guests; Molly was his wife and they had been apart for far too long. He was not, however, so far gone as to ruck her skirts up over her waist and take her out here in the garden, much as the insistent bulge in his trousers might urge him to do. Instead, breathless from the kiss, he turned his head and nuzzled at Molly's neck. “Come with me to our rooms, wife. I feel a burning need to see what you are wearing beneath your wedding gown.”

Her brown eyes were enormous in her face, her expression caught somewhere between happiness and anticipation as she licked her lips and offered him the tiniest of nods. He knew it was wildly improper to drag her away from the celebration just to satisfy his lusts, but since she was the only woman who had ever aroused them while at the same time capturing his heart, it was entirely her own fault.

Like two naughty children escaping the watchful eye of their governess, the two of them scampered off, Sherlock leading her the long way around the house, sneaking her in through the back entrance to the kitchen. The room was currently unoccupied by anyone but the scullery maid, who was busy scrubbing out the mound of pots and pans that had been used in preparing the wedding feast. Her attention was fixed on the large cast-iron pot at the top of the pile, and she wore a fierce scowl of concentration as she scrubbed. It appeared she hadn't noticed their entry into the room at all; raising a finger to his lips, Sherlock indicated that Molly should remain silent as they crossed the room. 

She managed to repress her giggles only as long as it took them to leave the kitchen and make their way up the back staircase to the main floor of the house, meeting not one other servant along the way, which was all to the good. Once the giggles escaped her lips, they lasted all the way up the next flight of stairs, until they reached the secluded rooms that had been prepared for the two of them. As soon as Sherlock opened the door, however, Molly seemed to sober instantly. Whether it was the sight of the rather imposing Jacobean four-poster bed that dominated the room, or the myriad of candles that rested on every flat surface – unlit but clearly brought into the room to give it a romantic ambiance – or something else entirely, Sherlock wasn't certain. Nor, to his surprise, did he wish to deduce the reason for her sudden cessation of mirth. He found himself strangely reluctant to do so, in fact.

He hoped it was not a sudden onset of shyness on her part, or worse, a sign that she'd changed her mind about renewing their intimate relations. They had shared no physical intimacy beyond kisses for nearly a month, and he felt a brief surge of discomfort at the realization that they had never discussed this. He'd made an assumption, and found himself unhappily contemplating the thought that he'd been foolish to do so.

He was reasonably certain that she believed him when he told her he loved her, even if he'd only said the words once, and he was more than reasonably certain that she loved him, but beyond that he found himself curiously unsure. When he turned to ask her, however, he found that she'd seated herself on the nearest armchair and was in the process of removing her shoes and stockings. When she felt his eyes on her, she looked up and dimpled. “Well, husband, now that you've got me all to yourself, don't tell me you don't know what to do with me!”

Spurred into action by her words and the teasing tone in which they’d been spoken, Sherlock closed and latched the door and hastily began removing his own clothing, the hated cravat nearly being ripped in two in the process, all doubts and worries tossed aside at the sight of her bare legs peeking out from beneath her rose gown. She'd raised it to her knees and was currently in the process of folding her stockings, smiling all the while.

It wasn't until he was in the middle of undoing his trousers that his mind caught up with what his eyes had observed: Molly was not wearing proper under-drawers beneath her wedding dress. When he turned his incredulous gaze to meet hers, she dimpled again and completed the task of folding her stockings, placing them neatly on the ottoman on which her left foot currently rested. “I anticipated your interest in resuming our previous...interactions...as quickly after the wedding as possible,” she said, her voice serene but with a hint of laughter lurking in her eyes and the corners of her lips. “After your mother and Mrs. Watson finished fussing over me, I sent them out of the room on the pretext of needing a few minutes privacy – well,” she interrupted herself with a giggle, “it wasn't actually a pretext, as I did, indeed, require those few minutes in order to divest myself of my...”

She did not complete her sentence, not out of any unwillingness to do so but because her husband's lips were covering her own, smothering any further words for the time being. Sherlock hadn't even been aware of moving until he found himself kneeling in front of his wife and taking her into his arms. They collapsed to the floor in a tangle of limbs when he became impatient to feel her closer and toppled her out of her seat. Molly's giggles returned, but only for as long as it took him to remove the remainder of her clothing and his own. Her corset presented a temporary difficulty which Sherlock resolved by retrieving his trousers, fishing out his pocket-knife and slicing through the ties.

They had to return to their feet in order to complete this part of their disrobing; once they were both entirely nude Sherlock lifted Molly into his arms, as always marveling at the slightness of her frame, how easily she fit in his arms and how much he enjoyed holding her in this manner. It wasn't the pleasure of possession or dominance, although there was a very primal, very male part of himself that certainly responded to her that way. No, it was simply the fact that this tiny woman had so thoroughly captured his heart, had taken what was meant to be a simple solution to a mutual problem they shared and somehow turned it into the best and wisest decision he'd ever made. He resolved then and there never to forget that fact, nor to allow her to think he'd ever done so. He knew he could be selfish and unheeding of the needs of others, but for her, he would certainly make the attempt to better himself. Not simply because he felt it was what was expected of him, but because he wished to do so, in order to secure her happiness.

He was not unaware of the fact that he'd undressed Molly and carried her over to the bed in much the same manner as he had upon their first carnal encounter. He had yet to remove the myriad of hairpins from her elaborately-styled tresses, but reserved that pleasure for after his more pressing needs – and hers as well – had been met. Not only met, but satisfied and conquered as well he thought, with not the slightest hint of modesty.

Maneuvering the seemingly unending expanse between the piles of discarded clothing and the Jacobean nightmare of a bed took longer than it should have, solely due to his wife's distracting habit of peppering his chest and throat with kisses while simultaneously running her fingers through his hair, disarraying the carefully disciplined waves into the curls he knew she much preferred. They finally made their way to the bed, where he deposited her carefully on her back, taking the opportunity to catalogue the changes that had occurred to her body since he'd last seen this way.

Her breasts were fuller, which fact he'd already noted. There was a slight curve to her abdomen, a firmness to his touch that had not been there before, but not enough, as he’d already noted, to disturb the lines of her gown. He wondered absently if it was time for her to forgo the use of a corset altogether, an entirely pleasing thought as he found that particular article of clothing an unnecessary impediment that did nothing to his wife’s already slender figure…and then Molly smiled at him and raised her arms to him and his ability to think was once again disturbed, in the most delightful of manners.

oOo

Molly watched as Sherlock explored her body, wondering if he would find the changes, subtle as they were, in any way repugnant or off-putting, but he showed nothing but honest curiosity, his questing fingers far more gentle than she'd ever felt them before during such explorations. He gazed down at her with an abstracted expression on his face, but when his gaze moved to meet hers she smiled and raised her arms, which invitation he immediately – and quite enthusiastically – accepted.

They shared kisses, languorous and impassioned in turn, exploring one another’s bodies with their fingers, eliciting sighs and groans and, in Molly’s case, a few squeaks as Sherlock deliberately found her most sensitive spots and lingered there. When his hand finally made its way between her legs, she spread them open without hesitation, knowing the pleasure he could bring her to with those long, clever digits. She gasped and clung to him, pressing feverish kisses and nips to his shoulder and throat as he unerringly placed exactly the right amount of pressure to bring her to the cusp of ecstasy, then teasingly slowed his movements as he whispered into her ear: “Am I pleasing you, wife? Or is it too much, should I stop and allow you a moment to recover?”

She responded with a sound very much like a growl, startling a laugh out of her husband. Oh, what a thrill it was to think of him in that way! Her husband, Sherlock Holmes. The man she loved and who had made her the happiest woman alive this very day…and whom she rather wanted to throttle at the moment as he withdrew his fingers entirely and raised them to his lips. When his tongue darted out to taste the moisture there, she decided it was her turn to tease, to do something Mary had told her about when Molly asked for her advice. Molly had become quite red during that hushed conversation, but Dr. Watson’s wife had spoken forthrightly and without any signs of embarrassment of the one assured way to turn a man into an incoherent mess in the bedroom. “You may or may not find your own enjoyment in the act,” had been Mary’s parting wisdom on that afternoon (Molly blamed too many glasses of summer wine for her unusual boldness with someone she’d just met yet instinctively knew would become a lifelong friend). “However, you shan’t know until you’ve tried it at least once!”

Both women had broken into giggles at that point, and when the men had returned from their brief absence (no doubt smoking and gossiping even worse than their female compatriots), Molly had been hard pressed to keep her wandering thoughts (and eyes!) from contemplating Mary’s words…and the specific region of Sherlock’s body those words had involved.

It would be nice, she thought as she pushed Sherlock up and away from her so that he fell onto his back, if just once she could be the one to surprise and disconcert him.

It would appear she had accomplished that goal merely by her initial actions; for a moment his expression was hurt, but as soon as she raised herself up and knelt over his prone form, the hurt was replaced by a sort of avaricious interest. He deliberately crossed his arms behind his head and gazed up at her. “So forceful, Mrs. Holmes,” he murmured. “What do you have in mind for me now?”

She responded by moving so that her kneeling form rested between his knees, her hands on his hips as she gazed down at his rampant manhood. She had yet to grow used to seeing him like this, blatantly nude and ready for her, and the size of him startled her all over again. However, she knew from their few times together that, in spite of his intimidating girth, they fit quite well together. A woman’s private parts were made, after all, to deliver forth infants; a man’s penetration could never be so discomforting as that!

A woman’s mouth, on the other hand, was something else entirely, and Molly found herself panicking a bit at the thought of what she now contemplated doing. However, the challenging smirk on her husband’s face shot a rod of steel up her backbone; she returned the smirk with one of her own before lowering her head and pressing a soft kiss to the tip of his prick, grasping the base with one hand whilst bracing herself against his thigh with her other.

He greeted her movements with an indrawn hiss of breath and a very definite increase in his body’s tension; when she darted her eyes up to take in his expression, she found that his own eyes had gone nearly black with desire. “Molly,” he growled as he held her gaze, “if you do not intend to make good on that promise, now would be the time to remove yourself from your current position. Else I swear my hand on your backside will be the next thing you feel!”

Oh, threats was it? Well! Molly Hooper had never backed away from a challenge in her young life and she certainly wasn’t going to now. Not that she feared that he would actually strike her, of course; in fact, a part of her thrilled at the thought of him doing so, but not just yet. Perhaps later, when they’d become more comfortable with one another, when she wasn’t carrying his child or when she felt ready to explore the wicked side of herself she was just learning existed…

Speaking of which, her husband had essentially dared her to continue with her ministrations, and that wicked side of her was quite happy to do so. She lowered her head again, this time darting out her tongue and swiping it across the hooded tip and once again working her hand up and down the velvety length of him.

oOo

Sherlock groaned and pressed his arm across his face. How in the hell had this happened, that the quiet, demure young lady he’d married only this afternoon had transformed into such a wanton? Yes, she’d been bold with him before, but never to this extent. He gasped as she finally brought the entire head of his prick into her sweet, warm mouth, and he peeked out from under his arm, curious to see how she was reacting to her own unexpected actions.

Her eyes were narrowed in concentration, a small “V” appearing between her eyes as she worked her mouth lower onto his straining shaft. He held his hips very still, although it was a battle; this was entirely new to Molly, and he’d not expected to even broach the subject with her until after they’d experienced more physical intimacy. “Molly,” he gasped out, “pray do not take this as a criticism, but what possessed you to try such a…” He ran out of words as she accidentally grazed his bollocks with her hand, emitting a strangled noise instead of continuing the question he’d started to ask.

For someone charting unfamiliar waters, Molly looked entirely too pleased with herself. Of course, the fact that he could not contain the slight twitches of his hips, or the way his hands curled into tight fists by his sides, or the soft grunts that he was making with every labored exhalation of his breath weren't exactly giving the impression of a man indifferent to his wife's actions. After several minutes spent restraining himself from thrusting deeper into her throat, Sherlock finally reached down and tugged none-too-gently at her hair. “Enough!” he gasped out, and Molly's lips released his prick with what felt like a great deal of reluctance. 

She grinned up at him happily as she sat back on her heels, hands on her own hips rather than his. “Mary said that I'd know I'd done it correctly if you asked me to stop in a certain manner...”

“Mary?” Sherlock stared at her, shocked to hear that name pass her lips in this context. “Mary Watson? John's wife? You spoke to her about...” Words failed him, but his own discomfort had no effect on his wife's smug smile, except to deepen it as she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his lips.

“Yes, Mary Watson, John's wife,” she replied, although she flushed a becoming shade of pink as she did so. Ah, so her defiant attitude was at least partially a facade, as he should have known. He returned the kiss, privately resolved to find out what other aspects of marital life Mrs. Watson had shared with Molly.

Not now, of course. He was far less interested at the moment in intellectual discourse – no matter how risqué the subject matter – than he was in physical intercourse. Molly’s ministrations had brought him to the very edge of his tightly-wound control, and it was taking every ounce of his remaining willpower not to simply flip her onto her back and rut into her like a wild animal.

Of course, judging by the frank lust with which she was currently regarding him, that might very well be exactly what he should be doing at this moment. Before he could suit thought to action, however, Molly continued to demonstrate her newfound boldness with him by raising herself up and grasping his prick in one hand before lowering herself gingerly onto him. She squirmed a bit adjusting to having him inside her, a habit he certainly could find no reason to complain about. Especially when it was abundantly clear that she required no preparation at this time in order to receive him into her body, which was hot and slick with moisture and felt incredible. As she started to move, pressing her hands on his chest and leaning forward to steal a demanding kiss from his lips, he found himself entering into a state of bliss he’d often heard described but only ever experienced when intimately entwined with this woman.

oOo

Afterward, when they lay tangled together, Molly's head resting on Sherlock's chest, he lifted her hand to his lips to press a tender kiss to her knuckles, pausing only to admire the slender gold band now adorning her third finger. It was engraved on the interior in Latin, “Tenetis Instrue” – “You hold my heart, always.” He looked forward to the day she discovered that secret truth almost as much as he looked forward to the day he first held their child in his arms.

A lifetime with a wife and children had never been something he’d envisioned for himself until three short months ago, and now, it was all he could see; indeed, he could no longer fathom how he’d not wished such a life for himself. “I love you, Mrs. Holmes,” he murmured as his wife turned her sweet lips up to meet his for a lingering kiss.

“I love you too, Mr. Holmes,” she replied. “And I do want to thank you for ruining me,” she added with a playful grin.

“My pleasure,” he replied, meaning every word.

He hoped for a lifetime of such ruination, if this happiness was to be the outcome.

THE END


End file.
